


The Wages of War

by manic_intent



Series: Pax Americana [2]
Category: Kingsman (Movies)
Genre: Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Full spoilers, M/M, NOTE: THIS FIC WILL BE MOSTLY T-RATED, Non-Traditional Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Omega!Whiskey, That AU following Monarch into the canon storyline, alpha!Harry, but from different POVs
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-19
Updated: 2017-10-27
Packaged: 2019-01-19 10:08:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 31,417
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12408360
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/manic_intent/pseuds/manic_intent
Summary: Harry wasn’t at home when the rocket blew up his house because he was in Santiago, watching Chile draw with Bolivia. Afterwards Jack dragged him to a murky bar full of disappointed Chileans still in their red football jerseys, drowning their sorrows with beer and pisco.Although Harry was fluent in standard Spanish, Chilean Spanish was completely beyond him, so he drank quietly and tried to keep  an eye out for trouble. Since Jack was also in a jersey, only Harry was glaringly out of place, though he had grudgingly forgone a suit jacket in the heat. Still, he couldn’t quite avoid trouble forever, and the crowd was restive.When the first soused man staggered over and growled, “American?” Harry put on a careful smile.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> There's really no reason why I should be writing a multichapter this close to Nano, but =_= ficbunnies seriously. **NOTE** : For those who haven't watched Kingsman: The Golden Circle, this fic pretty much contains full spoilers since the core plot points will be approximately the same.

Harry wasn’t at home when the rocket blew up his house because he was in Santiago, watching Chile draw with Bolivia. Afterwards Jack dragged him to a murky bar full of disappointed Chileans still in their red football jerseys, drowning their sorrows with beer and pisco. 

Although Harry was fluent in standard Spanish, Chilean Spanish was completely beyond him, so he drank quietly and tried to keep an eye out for trouble. Since Jack was also in a jersey, only Harry was glaringly out of place, though he had grudgingly forgone a suit jacket in the heat. Still, he couldn’t quite avoid trouble forever, and the crowd was restive. 

When the first soused man staggered over and growled, “American?” Harry put on a careful smile.

“British, I’m afraid.” 

“English,” The drunk man growled. “Rooney!” The rest was snarled in the Chilean dialect. 

Harry looked at Jack, who shrugged. “He said that if we had your country’s money, Chile would have the best football team in the world.”

“I suppose I don’t dispute that,” Harry said, who preferred Rugby but who had also been just old enough to remember when England won the World Cup in ’66. He tensed as the drunk man jabbed a finger at him, but waved Jack down as Jack started to get up. “It’s all right.”

“No. You shut up and drink.” Jack bared his teeth at the drunk man, saying something that made the man bristle and clench his fists, the closest Chileans rising to their feet, though whether to separate them or pile on Harry would never find out. The tiny television set in the corner of the bar burbled to life with a breaking news report that the bartender turned up. 

Terrorist attack in London. Commentary cut between panicked iPhone footage and a reporter on the scene, grave, her BBC accent dubbed over. Harry frowned. Savile Row. A manor in the country. Houses in London and in the outskirts. The world seemed to grow into brilliant focus. Every drunken whisper, every clink of glass, the scents of too many people packed together in the heat, Jack, pisco, beer— 

Getting to the street was a blur, and Harry breathed in diesel fumes and sewerage and sweat with visceral relief. Jack stared at him with open concern. “Okay there?” 

“I have to go back to London.”

“All right, let’s go.” Before Harry could disagree, Jack said, “And if you’re gonna tell me it’s none of my business, we took my plane here and I’d bet flights to Heathrow are gonna be cancelled or delayed, so if you want in to London ASAP, pretty sure you need me.” 

Harry conceded the point, a frighteningly easy habit where Jack was concerned. Jack was quiet on the way to the private jet, and once they were in the air, he followed Harry into the shower. “Jack,” Harry warned, unbuttoning his shirt, “I’m not in the mood.”

Jack’s mouth curled into a hard gash. “Fuck you. You think I’m here to do the omega thing? Suck your cock to make you feel better? Terrorist attack in London, multiple bombings, multiple casualties, precision missiles. Talk.” 

“I said I’m _not in the mood_ ,” Harry snapped, and only realized that he’d used an alpha tonal register when Jack stiffened. People were more than vestigial instincts and traits, but Jack was still one of a kind. Omegas usually froze, took fright, or turned submissive at a growl. Jack tended to laugh. And then he usually got pissed. Harry exhaled, and forced his voice into a normal pitch. “The third video they showed. On the news. That was my house.” 

Jack blinked. His anger folded away, leaving what looked like genuine concern. “You got family?” 

“No. But the other houses… my colleagues…” The _others_. Bors lived with his siblings. Percival had _grandchildren_ — 

“Hey,” Jack said softly, “it’s okay. I’ll give you a moment.” He started to leave, only to tense up as Harry closed in, pulling him into an embrace, pressing his mouth to Jack’s unmarked throat. The heat bond was more than a week gone, but Harry’s hindbrain could remember the impression of it, the pull, Jack’s scent, rich when in heat. If this was another trap, it was one Harry had willingly walked into. 

“So.” Jack was petting Harry’s flanks, soothing rather than caressing. “You broke out of our HQ in Kentucky—you were lucky there weren’t any field agents on site at the time—and disappeared for a while. Thought I wouldn’t see you again.”

“You told me to look for you in New York.” 

“Didn’t think you’d actually do it.” Jack had, on hindsight, looked somewhat surprised when Harry had tracked him down. 

“Your agency’s name is written across a skyscraper. It’s not exactly subtle.” 

“Didn’t say finding me would be hard. Just surprised that you bothered.” They’d spent a pleasant few days in Jack’s beautiful townhouse, then Jack had dragged him off to Santiago. “Thought you’d go home.” 

“I did.” Harry had returned to London quietly, on a passport that Kingsman wasn’t aware of. He’d found a new Arthur in place, and his position and house occupied, by Eggsy, of all people. And so, rather disoriented, Harry had decided to leave to recollect himself and had ended up in New York. 

Eggsy. Harry had tried to call Eggsy using his current phone, a burner, on the way to Jack’s plane, but there’d been no answer. Nothing from Merlin, either. Only sheer self-discipline and habit held back grief. They might have survived. He wouldn’t mourn anyone just yet. 

Against him, Jack huffed. “Presumed dead, thought you might as well retire?”

“It was going to be temporary.” That sounded all too defensive now, especially since… Harry took in a shaky breath, then belatedly forced himself to calm down. “Matters were. Different. Back home. I thought I could afford the time to keep an eye on things for a while, from a distance. To get the measure of things—” 

Jack kissed him hard on the lips. “Take a moment. I’ll get Ginger to send me what she’s got so far on the attack.”

Left to himself, Harry braced his palms against the sink. The man in the mirror looked shell-shocked and wan. Old. Harry was acutely aware of the silver in his hair, of the seams that Time had cut into his brow, of how mortality often made itself felt now with lingering aches, in his bones, his back, his temple. Behind his head, from the wall, a fistful of monarch butterflies unpeeled themselves from nothing, fluttering until Harry made a harsh sound and shook his head. 

Then he washed his face, took a quick shower and changed into fresh clothes. While emptying his pockets, he found something missing.

Jack was still in his jersey, sunk into an armchair with his shoes propped up over a sleek table, laptop balanced over his knees. He didn’t look over when Harry approached, nor did he flinch when Harry drew on him, pistol held steady. “Now that’s not so friendly,” Jack said. 

“I presume Statesman traced my agency.”

“We did, couple of days after you disappeared. Turns out your founder and ours knew each other. So we didn’t bother to chase it up.” 

“The timing’s terribly convenient, isn’t it?”

Jack glanced up, fearless as ever. Lean and lethal and charming, he was one of the most dangerous people Harry had ever met. It should have repulsed him as an alpha, but instead it fascinated him. Harry’s first mistake, perhaps. “Look,” Jack said dryly, “I thought I’d proved to you by now that if I want you dead, I probably wouldn’t even break much of a sweat. Why the hell even would we bomb your agency?”

“Competition? You said you don’t get many gigs from Europe.”

“Didn’t you see that huge-ass skyscraper in New York with our name on it? You think that’s funded by gigs, do you? Don’t make me laugh. The legit side of our business is worth a hella lot more than this cloak and spy shit. Not everyone can afford an agent, but everybody needs a drink now and then.”

“I’m going to need your gun.” He’d have to disarm Jack, probably knock him out, then sedate him to keep him under. 

“You’re not going to shoot me,” Jack said, turning back to his laptop. “Firing a gun inside a plane? Tricky. Might hit something important by accident.”

A bullet hole through the hull of the plane wouldn’t matter, as long as Harry didn’t hit a fuel tank or blow out a window. Harry was about to demonstrate when Jack abruptly grabbed Harry’s wrist with one hand and the muzzle of the gun with the other, rotating it in a sharp jerk away from his face and out of Harry’s grip before Harry could pull the trigger. He removed the magazine and dropped the empty gun pointedly on the deck. 

“Do that again,” Jack said pleasantly, “and the next time I confiscate your gun I’ll break your trigger finger. Then I’ll kick you off this plane without a parachute. I really fucking hate having guns pointed at my face. Almost as much as I hate drugs. Sit down.”

Harry sat. “Drugs?” 

“Long story. Not relevant right now. Statesman isn’t behind the attack on Kingsman, all right? Fuck. Why would we even bother? You people aren’t a threat to us at all. We’re doing fine in our own lane. Besides, if we wanted to take out Kingsman, I could’ve killed you anytime I wanted before the bar.” 

True. Harry breathed out, rubbing a palm over his face. He could feel a bad headache coming on. Jack was speaking the truth and it should’ve been obvious to Harry. Lashing out like he had was irrational. Worse, he might just have alienated his last ally. “My apologies,” Harry said eventually. “That was incredibly rude of me. Please forgive me.”

“I’m going to give you a pass,” Jack said, though he frowned at Harry over his laptop, “given the circumstances. But don’t get used to it.” 

“Anything from Ginger yet?” Harry asked, contrite. 

“No. She’s monitoring the police dispatch and the news. Looks like a couple of terrorist organisations claimed responsibility, but given the nature of the attack, that’s probably unlikely.” 

Harry nodded. “We’ve been contracted to act in hot zones before by MI6, but I’m not aware of any terrorist organisation with the tech and resources for something like this.”

“Missile strike like that can’t have come out of nowhere. Ginger has a team combing visual through one of our satellites, see if we can’t narrow it down.” 

“Thanks.”

“Though this isn’t actually our problem, as far as I can tell. I’m tempted to drop you off at Heathrow and leave you to your own fucking devices.” Still pissed, then. Not that Harry blamed him. 

“If you wish. It’s well within your rights, particularly given my atrocious behaviour. But whatever might have gone after Kingsman so thoroughly may consider targeting other similar organisations.” 

“And Statesman ain’t exactly subtle about where we are. Like you said.” Jack scowled at his laptop, typing furiously. “Yeah, I see your point. Get some sleep. Oh,” he added, when Harry got to his feet, “I saw you trying to call someone on the way here. Probably don’t need to tell you this, but don’t try calling whoever it is on this plane. I don’t want to get traced and shot out of the sky.” 

“Yes,” Harry said dryly, “I noticed my phone was missing when I was changing. You picked my pocket, I presume.”

“That why you thought we were behind this? Please. If I could steal your phone without you noticing, why didn't I take your gun too?” Jack rolled his eyes, and pointedly ignored Harry when Harry wished him a tentative good night. The private plane didn’t have a guest room and sleeping in the main bedroom was probably a rude presumption right now. Harry removed his shoes and curled up on the couch in the entertainment section. He slept badly.

#

Breakfast was chilly. Harry was carefully contrite, but he was recalculating his options for the likely possibility that Jack was just going to abandon him in London and leave. Getting to Heathrow would be good enough. He had resources in London that were independent of Kingsman. A breach of this nature meant some sort of leak. Somebody must have flipped. Jack pushed over an iPad open to the BBC’s ongoing live coverage of the bombing, as well as a handwritten sheet of paper with the addresses affected.

“That’s all the agents, I think. And HQ.” Harry had no appetite, but an early life in the Army meant learning to eat regularly whenever he could, a habit that he’d never had to break. 

“You guys know where everyone else lives?” Jack had changed into his usual dress shirt, Stetson hat, and wool jacket with suede panels in the morning. Harry still wasn’t sure about the aesthetic of a hat and a suit, but Stetsons and awful belt buckles seemed to be part of some sort of uniform for the Statesman, albeit in terrifyingly poor taste. “Nobody thought that was a bad idea?”

“We aren’t privy to the private information of other agents, no. But I know the number of agents, and two were good friends of mine.” No survivors from ground zero of any of the blasts, no bodies to recover. The injured had probably been unlucky bystanders.

“D’you happen to know everyone’s real name, at least? Ginger can check out the certificates of title.”

“No.”

“Looks to me that there’s a few ways this might’ve gone, then,” Jack said mildly. “One, you guys got hacked. Happens to everyone. Two, at least one of you guys got flipped. If we check out the houses we might figure out who didn’t get hit. Three, it was one of the staff. You guys do have support staff, yeah?”

Harry nodded, scanning through the BBC feed, then he glanced up belatedly. “‘We’?” 

“Ginger mentioned that maybe your cute little play with the gun was a symptom of some sort of psychotic break. Gunshot nanowhatsit treatment side-effect, maybe. She thinks I should keep an eye on you and not take it personally.” 

“There are more side-effects?” So he wasn’t going mad, hallucinating butterflies. Harry should have figured that out.

“What do you mean, more?” 

A slip. Harry covered for it by taking a sip of his tea. “The amnesia? Painting butterflies on the walls?” 

“Oh, that. Yeah well, like I said, experimental technology. Me, I had pretty bad headaches for months. Put me in a filthy mood.”

“I’m grateful to be alive,” Harry said carefully, “and I don’t think I ever thanked Ginger and your medical team for the privilege.”

“I’ll pass the note along.” 

“And I really am sorry about pulling a gun on you yesterday.”

“Yeah, heard you the first time. It’s fine. I get it. Reason why I’m still pissed doesn’t have anything to do with that.”

“Then?”

Jack raised his eyebrows. “La Roja? Scoreless draw with Bolivia? If we keep this up we’re not gonna qualify for the World Cup, and that’s after Chile won two Copa Américas in a fucking row. Good thing I didn’t bring my parents to the game.” 

It hadn’t really occurred to Harry, somehow, that Jack still had family. This was the first time he had mentioned it. A show of trust and an olive leaf, perhaps. Jack wasn’t looking at him though, concentrating on his laptop. “Better luck next time,” Harry said, opting for a neutral answer.

“Hope so.” Jack grumbled briefly under his breath. “So what’s the plan? Your mess, your call.” 

“Find survivors, if any. Talk to their families. Take stock of the situation on the ground. Like you said, it’s either a hack or an inside job. Something like this needed a lot of planning. And, possibly, fed by a grudge.”

“Some fucking grudge.” Jack checked something on his laptop and typed a response. “Right. Champ’s curious, so you’re stuck with me for now, at least until we figure out whether whoever it is just had a hard on for Kingsman or for all open-contract agencies. Ginger’s team downloaded Scotland Yard’s forensic photos for our own analysis. Agent Brandy will chat up our arms contacts. Those missiles had to come from somewhere.” 

“Wasn’t this meant to be my call?” Harry asked dryly, though he smiled when Jack pretended to scowl at him. 

“Just trying to speed this along. Or I could tell everyone to put a lid on it, if you prefer.” When Harry shook his head, Jack said, “One other thing. Think we should compare notes. About our agencies. Just so we’re on the same page.”

“If you traced us in London—”

“Just enough to realize that our founders knew each other. Apparently your founder was our founder’s tailor. After that, Champ decided it wasn’t really any of our business, as long as nobody’s toes got stepped on.” 

“I see.” Harry flicked through the rest of the BBC article without reading it. He stiffened as a butterfly unpeeled itself from the table, bright blue, a Ulysses, and he rubbed his eye, forcing a slow breath. It flicked up past his shoulder and dissipated. 

“Harry?” Jack prompted. He looked concerned again. “Maybe you should have another lie down. You’re going pale.” 

“No, I’m fine.” Harry finished his tea, glad that his fingers were steady. “Kingsman is an independent intelligence agency. Based in London, founded in 1919. Our front was a tailor shop in London, though the Savile Row business was never a large percentage of our profit margin. Unlike Statesman.”

“D’you guys poach from Armed Forces too?”

“SAS and Marines for preference, yes. Our founders wanted us to be the new knights. Every agent’s codename was based off a character from the Round Table.”

“So what was yours?” 

“Galahad.” Saying that out aloud ached a little, his chest constricting as he breathed. “We have a similar system to Statesman, I believe. Fixed number of active agents who operated solo with a support network. We took mostly government contracts with a few private ones here and there.” 

“Galahad, huh.” Jack was looking it up. “Renowned for gallantry and purity?” He smirked over his laptop. 

Harry didn’t take the bait. “Someone else has the Galahad seat now. Since I was presumed dead.” Eggsy had his seat. _Had_. Harry looked away. To have a gentleman’s poise was to have control of himself at all times. Sometimes he just had to lean really heavily on the valve.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Refs:  
> Technically Kingsman 1 murdered Obama in 2014, but the World Cup qualifiers started in 2016, so I’ve squished time a bit, aka, Kingsman!verse USA gets Obama until 2016 instead of just to 2014.  
> Chilean Spanish: www.gringajourneys.com/chilean-spanish-difficult/  
> Gun Disarm: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=cmQk3DnTcSs


	2. Chapter 2

“What is it with you people and Aston Martins?” Harry asked, as they got into the black Aston Martin Vanquish that had been waiting for them on the tarmac. Jack had called ahead. Behind them, efficient ground staff were consulting with Jack’s pilot, discreetly avoiding their eyes. 

“We're on a mission in London, I'm just getting into the spirit of things. What is it with _you_ people and your allergy to fun?” Jack shot back, as he took the wheel. “Heard about Kingsman’s black cab system. You guys are fixers, not wannabe cabbies. Even if you soup up a cab, driving it isn’t gonna be anywhere as fun as one of these babies.”

“Being a Kingsman is a calling. It’s not meant to be fun. Cabs are unobtrusive.” 

No wonder Kingsman didn’t make any serious money. “The way a tall guy in a thousand dollar suit and a golf umbrella tends to be unobtrusive, eh?” 

Harry raised his eyebrows. “I do beg your pardon. Kingsman’s suits are worth considerably more than a thousand dollars.” He didn’t smile, but his eye crinkled a little at the edges. “While I can’t say the same for…” Harry gestured helplessly at Jack as Jack drove away from the plane. 

“I swear, you say one more thing about my hat and I will turn this car around.”

Harry smiled faintly, but obligingly changed the subject. “This isn’t Heathrow.”

“Amazing. Incredible powers of observation. I see why the most famous spies in the world are British.”

“Sarcasm is the lowest form of humour,” Harry said, as they passed a lineup of Gulfstreams in various colours. “I know this is RAF Northolt.” 

“We prefer it. Discreet. Plane to curb in minutes. Don’t tell me you guys make a habit of using Heathrow. That place gives me ulcers.” 

“We had our own airfield,” Harry said, and went quiet until they were on the A40, cruising through early evening traffic. “Also, JFK is terrible. Glass houses.” 

“Okay, I’ll give you that. Not that we use JFK.” Jack watched Harry through his peripheral vision. 

Harry had his face turned, watching the traffic, his hands loose over his lap. He looked relaxed, but Jack knew it was probably an act: Harry’s jaw was set, and Jack might’ve forgiven Harry for the shit he pulled in the plane, but he hadn’t forgotten. 

Agents of Harry’s calibre having psychotic breaks—if that’s what it was—were hella bad news. Years ago, when Jack was a junior agent, he’d had to put down one of Statesman’s own. The senior agent hadn’t been much older than Jack was now, and although he’d been known to be morose and withdrawn, until today nobody was entirely sure what the breaking point had been. He’d bought an AR-15 from a gun shop—legally, of course, and on the quiet—and had walked into a quiet mall with his new assault rifle and a bagful of magazines. Jack didn’t remember much of the deadly hunting game they’d ended up playing through the supermarket at the end. He only remembered slipping on blood in the toys department on their way there. Throwing up afterwards, when the job was done. Didn’t remember how Champ had managed to spin that all out either for the press. Luckily the American public tended to have a short attention span.

Under Valentine’s influence, Harry had killed a hell of a lot more civilians in that church with just a couple of pistols. And they hadn’t talked about that yet.

“Tired? Hungry?” Jack prompted, when the silence stretched.

“Not particularly. But we probably should have a bite to eat.”

“You’re the local. Tell me where to go.” 

“Any preferences?” Harry asked indifferently, without looking over, and Jack grit his teeth. He was mildly jetlagged, had never liked long flights, and was all too conscious that the highly dangerous alpha next to him didn’t actually have a full grasp of all his marbles. _And_ had technically committed mass murder only a few weeks ago. Faced with that, non-alphas usually tried to play nice. Jack preferred to escalate. 

“You’re starting to freak me out,” Jack told him, “and when that happens, someone usually dies.”

Harry turned, frowning. “I beg your pardon?”

“Is this a British thing or?” Jack gestured at Harry’s face. “If someone bombed Statesman and killed all the other agents, I would’ve been fucking pissed. I would’ve _stayed_ pissed. You’re calm. Way too calm. It’s freaking me out.” 

“I am indeed rather unhappy about all this,” Harry said evenly, doing an excellent impression of a killer robot, in Jack’s opinion, “but I don’t see how losing my temper will necessarily help the situation.” 

“It’s a British thing,” Ginger said into Jack’s earpiece. “But be careful.”

“McDonalds,” Jack suggested, just to see if he could push the needle, but Harry merely nodded curtly and looked back out of the window.

Jack found a drive-thru and ordered Big Macs, chips, nuggets, apple pies and Cokes. The closest address on the list used to be a townhouse on a quiet street, near a park and a school. Jack parked outside the police cordon and distributed grease and sugar. Perhaps unsurprisingly, Harry had an odd look on his face when he unwrapped his burger, not quite resignation, not quite disgust. 

“Never had a Big Mac before?” Jack asked. Harry didn’t look like the sort who’d go anywhere near a McDonalds if he could help it.

“Once before,” Harry said, and smiled wanly. “With Richmond Valentine, in his house. On a mission, undercover. He wasn’t actually trying to rile me up, unlike certain people I can think of. He genuinely seemed to like them.” 

Oops. “You could’ve said something if you didn’t want one.” Harry had shrugged when Jack had asked him what he had wanted at the drive-thru. 

“No. This is fine.” Harry took a bite, and pulled a face. “Actually, this is just as awful as I remember.” 

“Serves you right.” Jack liked fancy restaurants as well as the next man, but he also had a secret unspeakable love for fast food that made living in New York a constant struggle. “What was he like? Richmond Valentine.” 

“Intense. Principled. I think he was a genuinely good man once upon a time. That’s probably why he did as much damage as he did. He cared intensely about the planet. At some point he just stopped caring about people living on it as well. Stopped seeing them as people, just as problems to be solved.”

“I’ve known people like that,” Jack said. He was usually paid to put them down. 

An increase in his blood sugar appeared to revive Harry’s mood somewhat, as he squirmed and tried to get comfortable in the Aston Martin’s padded seat. “Of all the lessons to take away from James Bond, you American agents fixate on the Aston Martin instead of the passable wardrobe.”

“Again? Something wrong with my clothes, weón?”

“I don’t even know where to start.” 

“Says the man whose ties are arranged from light to dark. In his _suitcase_. Who _does_ that?” 

“It’s a logical sequence,” Harry said primly, “while, I might add, your wardrobe has no sequence whatsoever. It’s sheer chaos. I don’t know how you can stand it.”

“It’s a _wardrobe_. Wait. Is this why you were moving shit around in there?” He’d come out of the shower once to see Harry poking around the wardrobe, not that Harry had been the least embarrassed at getting caught. 

“What did you think I was doing? Your coats and jackets are mixed up with your shirts and t-shirts and everything else. It’s a disaster area. I was trying to help.”

“Eh, well, I thought you were either doing the alpha thing of secretly scent-marking my stuff or trying to find some underwear to steal,” Jack said, just to watch Harry choke on a french fry. He leered.

“Who in the world would be that crass? And don’t even get me started on your bookshelves. The Dewey system was invented for a reason.” 

“It’s just my luck,” Jack told the world in general. “The hottest alpha I’ve ever met also happens to be the most anal person in the world, and not even in a fun way.” 

Harry sniffed, clearly deciding not to dignify that with an answer. Afterwards, Jack disposed of the debris of dinner while Harry ambled across the street to speak quietly to the neighbours, then he came back and got into the car. “This was Bedivere’s house, I think. He loved dogs. Adopted a new dog a year ago, showed me a picture of it once after a mission. A black and white border collie mix. The neighbours confirmed its description. He was at home with his family when the missile hit.”

“Shit. Sorry to hear.” 

“Let’s go. My house next, please.” 

Jack looked at him with surprise. Wasn’t that a bit of a waste of time? “If you didn’t have family living there, what are you hoping to find? Got a basement stash or something?” Admittedly, any agent worth their salt would probably have a secret arms stash in their house. Jack had two, one cache in a panic room and another in the garage.

“No, I just… Just drive us there, thanks.” 

Maybe Harry was feeling sentimental. Bad habit. Jack shrugged, setting his GPS to the address Harry gave him and pulling out of the quiet street. Getting around London was unnecessarily complicated, and traffic was terrible, but eventually he eased into another beautiful, quiet residential street with rows of elegant townhouses. Picture-perfect, if not for the glaring hole punched into the row on the left. Precision bombing, really. The houses to the left and right hadn’t been affected much. He pulled up close to the police cordon, following Harry out of the car. Harry walked over to the cordon, looking over at the devastation for a while, grave and pale. Then he came back to Jack and the car.

“I didn’t have family, but there _was_ someone living in my house. Someone I… mentored. It’s why I left London to return to New York.” Harry said, leaning back against the car instead of walking over to the cordon. He looked tired, one hand tucked into a pocket. 

The pause was pretty telling and the tense unhappiness in every line of Harry’s body was obvious. “Lover?”

Harry blinked. “No! No, of course not. I was his sponsor. To a vacant seat. Promising young man.”

“You willed your house to him?” 

“No.”

“And you don’t think it’s kinda odd that he moved in right after your death?” 

Harry glanced over at the gaping nothing where the house had been. “I suppose he thought I was dead. Besides, I wasn’t exactly using it at the time.” 

There was definitely something there. Jack had mentored younger agents before, and he sure as hell wouldn’t have inspired any of them to move into his house in the event of his death. Wasn’t that just kinda creepy? “O-kay,” he said instead, hazarding another guess. “Kid was an omega?” 

This got him a frown. “No. Beta. And it really isn’t what you’re implying. That would’ve been inappropriate of me as a senior agent and as Eggsy’s mentor, given the circumstances.” 

“‘Eggsy’?” Weirdest name Jack had ever heard. He tried to imagine some pretty boy, probably slender and curly-haired, but his mind just kept overlaying a large chicken egg over the head of a man wearing a suit. Maybe he shouldn’t have had so much sugar and oil.

Harry started to reply, then he turned his head sharply, looking down the alley behind them. It was dark enough further in the narrow alley that Jack couldn’t see a thing, nor had he heard anything, but Harry said, “Who’s there?” 

Jack was preparing to duck down behind the car when, of all people, a young blonde woman stepped out of the deep shadow, though she didn’t emerge from the alley. She had a pistol aimed at Harry, and looking at her posture, poise, and pantsuit she was most probably a young Kingsman agent of some sort.

“Lancelot,” Harry said. His tone was quiet, and he didn’t reach for his own gun. “Do you know who’s behind all this?”

“You’re supposed to be dead.” 

“I’m hard to kill.” Harry tapped pointedly at his eyepatch, and Lancelot grimaced. 

“You come back from the dead and there’s a missile strike on Kingsman.”

“Are _all_ of you this goddamned paranoid? Why the hell would he bomb his own house?” Jack asked dryly, but Harry ignored him, staring keenly at Lancelot. 

“I could say the same for you. A precision strike on HQ and on all our homes, but you survived.” 

“I was in HQ. Got seconds’ worth of warning from the perimeter alarm, but it was enough to dive into the panic room and take the chute down to the hyperloop tunnel before the house collapsed. The tunnel held up under the blast and I got out through a service entrance.”

“It was built to be a bomb shelter, yes.” Harry studied Lancelot thoughtfully. “Eggsy never thought he had a chance of becoming Lancelot, did you know? He mentioned it to me once, as a joke. Said you were by far the best in class and nobody else was going to come anywhere near close.”

“Eggsy’s alive,” Lancelot said, after a long pause, though her gun didn’t waver. “He was in Sweden at the time.” 

Harry relaxed so visibly that he even briefly let his guard down—he closed his eye and carded fingers through his hair. “Thank God for small mercies.” 

Lancelot softened. She looked between Harry and Jack, then at the police cordon. Then she decocked her gun, holstering it, and smiled a little sheepishly, walking out of the alley. “Sorry, sir. I couldn’t be sure.” 

“That’s quite all right. Given the circumstances.” 

Lancelot looked over at Jack with open curiosity, so Jack arched an eyebrow at Harry. “Are we all friends again? Just like that? Really?” Were Kingsman agents just extremely casual about the whole pointing-guns-at-people business?

“I’ve long been a friend of her family.” Harry said. “Roxy, this is Jack. He’s—”

“Harry’s rich American boyfriend,” Jack said cheerfully, before Harry could blab any further, and stepped over to shake Lancelot’s hand enthusiastically. “How d’you do. Roxy, was it? Or Lancelot?” 

“‘Roxy’ is fine.” Roxy blinked, rather taken aback. She glanced at Harry, who sighed, but thankfully didn’t volunteer anything about Statesman. 

“I was recuperating in the States, where I met Jack. Jack was kind enough to fly me here after we saw the news.” 

“Darlin’, I’ll fly you anywhere,” Jack drawled, and winked outrageously. 

Roxy laughed as Harry pointedly cleared his throat, though she sobered quickly when Harry said, “Percival?”

“Uncle’s dead. So is the rest of the Round Table, including Arthur. I’ve been checking. Other than Eggsy, that is.” 

“I’m very sorry to hear that, Roxy. Where’s Eggsy now?” 

“I don’t know. He’s gone to ground. All I know is that he landed in Heathrow at some point. He might still be in London, though his mum hasn’t seen him. She’s very worried. He isn’t answering his phone and our internal comms are down.” Roxy grimaced. “Eggsy’s friend was dogsitting in the… in your house at the time. He didn’t make it.”

“Merlin?” 

Lancelot looked grim. “He’s alive, I believe. But he’s AWOL. And he wiped all the computers in his house first.” 

“We need to find the both of them and regroup,” Harry said. “Jack has some contacts who might put us on the right track.”

“I like to know interesting people.” Jack leaned back against the car. 

“I’ve got a friend in the Yard, she’s been keeping an eye on forensics for me.” Roxy hesitated for a moment. “I don’t know if we should be involving any civilians, sir.” 

Jack would’ve laughed out aloud if he hadn’t quickly bitten his cheek. “Don’t worry about me. Besides, if anything happens, I’m sure Harry will protect me.” He smirked at Harry, who frowned very slightly at him in reproach. 

“We should split up. Prioritise finding Eggsy and Merlin. Buy a new phone, just in case, a burner. We’ll get in touch by…” He hesitated. “Jack, can I give her your number? Whoever it is who did this probably doesn’t know about you.”

“Sure.” Jack wrote it down on a receipt and handed it over. 

“One more thing,” Roxy said, a little hesitantly. “Harry, I know Merlin was your handler. And you’re both great friends. But Percival once told me that only one person has access to private Agents’ data in Kingsman, and it isn’t Arthur.” 

“I know. But we shouldn’t jump to conclusions on circumstantial evidence.” 

“We shouldn’t ignore any inconvenient evidence either,” Roxy said, and tacked on a flat, “sir,” at the end with a defiant lift of her chin. Jack carefully hid a grin. 

“Yes, thank you, Roxy. Get in touch when you have something for me.” 

Roxy nodded briskly, and faded back into the alley. Jack waited for a while, then he said, “I like her.” 

“She’s a very promising junior agent.” Harry got into the car, and Jack followed suit, only to stiffen for a moment as Harry leaned in for a swift kiss on the mouth. “You’re incorrigible,” Harry whispered, when they broke for air. 

“I don’t make it a habit of vomiting Statesman secrets to strangers. Needed a reason to stick around and be nosy about it. And besides, I wasn’t totally lying. I’m rich _and_ American. As to the last bit,” Jack said, archly patting Harry over his crotch, “darlin’, you ain’t that lucky.”

Harry’s eye went wide, and he chuckled ruefully, pressing in for another kiss.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Refs:  
> https://www.forbes.com/sites/matthewstibbe/2013/01/21/london-vip-airport/#5d1154cf7db3
> 
> London is 4 hours ahead of Santiago, Sweden +5. The Chile v Bolivia game started 830pm local time and games average around 2 hours total. If they’re drinking after, it did look like the missiles hit late at night, but there’s probably a lag time before the news broke in Chile. So let’s just assume Eggsy’s dinner with the parents took hours in Sweden and ran pretty late into the am and the missile strike happened during the game so all the time fits.
> 
> tldr: 14hr 20 min flight = Harry and Whiskey leave sometime after the game and touch down in UK at around 130-2pm Chilean time, aka 530-6pm London time… Probably…


	3. Chapter 3

Roxy was not an idiot, thank you, despite stereotypes about natural blondes. Civilian her arse. ‘Jack’ was obviously an operative of some kind: the fact that he didn’t freak out when Roxy drew on them was a red flag. He’d been relaxed all of their chat: another red flag. He’d shaken Roxy’s hand with a hand that had trigger calluses. Another flag. Other little things. All in all, enough red flags, in Roxy’s opinion, to rival the bloody Soviet Union. 

In a hipster little cafe around the block from New Scotland Yard, Roxy nursed a coffee and went back over her options, petting Diana as the poodle rested her head in Roxy’s lap. Eggsy was almost certainly innocent. Otherwise, if he’d actually meant to sacrifice Brandon or something horrible, why panic when Brandon started playing with that lighter? Roxy had seen everything through internal comms. 

Merlin… Roxy had her suspicions about Merlin. But why now? If Merlin had wanted to murder all of Kingsman, he should’ve just teamed up with Valentine. Or maybe he’d had an issue with Valentine murdering most of the world, and had processed his vendetta afterwards. Merlin had given Roxy no indication ever that he’d harboured such a thing, but he was the only person who knew where everyone in Kingsman lived. The fact that Eggsy had been spared didn’t figure much. Eggsy was Merlin’s clear favourite. 

Harry and ‘Jack’ were by far the biggest anomaly, though. Merlin was Harry’s best friend. Harry had clearly recovered from what should’ve been a gunshot wound to the head with suspicious ease. Through the _eye_ , at that. That simply wasn’t possible. Roxy had a SAS cousin who had been shot in the head when he was in Iraq, and recovery had been slow and painful. Years after, he was still struggling to relearn how to speak. Some people did recover more quickly, but in weeks? Without coming back to Kingsman to announce that he was still alive? Red flag. 

The eye patch and scar were probably fake. Eggsy had worshipped Harry, and Harry had been friends with Percival and with Roxy’s late mum, who had known him in MI5, but people changed. Ignoring evidence that didn’t add up was just going to get her killed. She had to find Eggsy and Merlin, watch Harry and Jack carefully, and keep an open mind. Maybe Charlie’s attack on Eggsy had just been stage one. Maybe this bombing was stage two of something else.

Emma bustled in with the brunch crowd, bright-eyed and fresh-faced despite having pulled an all-nighter, crisp in her police uniform. She walked over when Roxy waved, and they hugged. “Bloody hell. I’m so happy that you’re okay.”

“No one’s happier about that than me,” Roxy said, as they sat down at the table. She’d been friends with Emma since primary school, a friendship that had begun on the junior track team and hadn’t been broken despite their lives taking wildly different paths. “You look good, Em.”

Emma grinned at her. Her black hair was trimmed down to a curly fuzz, but she was still a full head taller than Roxy, and had pretty much always been taller. Emma’s parents had migrated from Laos when she was five. Her decision to sign up with the Filth, she had once told Roxy, was pretty much a Disappointment to the Family, at least for her black parents. “You too, girl.” 

They ordered sandwiches and more coffee, then Emma passed over an A4 envelope to Roxy. “Y’know,” she said, as Roxy opened the envelope, “when you told me you were signing up with ‘MI6, but better money’ I did hope I’d someday get involved with some spy shit. Now I think I should’ve specified that I didn’t want said spy shit to be a major terrorist incident.” 

“You get what you wish for.” The envelope contained high res images of the crime scenes and of shrapnel pieces on a gurney, lined up next to a ruler. 

“My governor’s really unhappy about this case,” Emma told her. “Every single house—including the big old one in the country—had debris that indicated they’d all had big caches of weapons. It’s all hands on deck. Gone all sensitive. I’m sticking my neck out for you by being here, just so you know.”

“I’m aware of that. I’m sorry. If there was another way—”

“Hey, I’m happy to help. Especially if it keeps you alive,” Emma said firmly. “And sure, you obviously en’t got to tell me everything. What I’m trying to say is, I need to know, is this a once off? Or are there going to be more missile strikes?”

“I don’t know yet.” Roxy flipped the photographs back to the first. Percival’s house. Her _uncle’s_ house. With her aunt, and cousins, and their dogs and cat. Her eyes started to sting, embarrassingly, but thankfully she managed to hold back the tears. There’d be time for that later. “I’ll let you know once I do, I promise.”

“Okay.” Emma relaxed. “So this was obviously a strike on you people, right? Shop front on Savile Row, really? I’ve watched almost every spy film out there and usually it’s the back room of some general store or antique shop or something.”

“Family tradition.” 

“Anyway, higher ups quickly put the lid on things. Or tried to, anyway. Word going around is that the hush order came from all the way up top, higher than the Commissioner. Still, a multiple missile strike in London is rather hard to pass off as a really coincidental gas leak explosion. Especially in the age of YouTube.” 

Roxy shrugged. “That’s for them to sort out. Me, I just want to know where the missiles came from.” 

“We had a full team working out the trajectory through what we could scam off CCTV feeds.” Emma looked around the cafe, and passed over a folded sheet of paper from her inner pockets. “Here. Your eyes only.” 

Roxy took a quick look. It was a photocopy of a street directory. Section of the Thames, marked with a red X. “Submarine? How’s that possible?” Surely they would have triggered _some_ sort of alert.

“Hoping you would tell me. This is some serious James Bond shit. You guys having a throw down with the KGB or something, what?”

“The KGB doesn’t technically exist anymore. They sort of rebranded a while back. And no, I really don’t think it was them.” MI6 usually handled actual international spy games: where government espionage was concerned, Kingsman was only ever contracted to handle black ops that were either out of MI6’s technical jurisdiction or considered too time-sensitive for a govt op. Roxy had never been on any such op herself, though Percival had met his wife on one, a French DGSE agent. Marie had made the most incredible madeleines. 

“Sure you’re okay?” Emma asked kindly, when Roxy sniffled and looked away, flushing in embarrassment. “It’s been a long couple of days. It’s all right.”

“I’m fine.” Roxy smiled weakly. “You’ve been a great help.” 

“I got something else. You know how not so long ago there was this wild car chase and an explosion in the park that you said was nothing? The bodies couldn’t be ID’d. Teeth filed down, no prints. Not much left of most of them worth a damn, but one of them was wearing a fancy 3D printed titanium animal skull necklace with a custom inscription at the back.” 

“Lucky,” Roxy said. Titanium had a very high melting point. Probably why it had survived the car fire.

“One of the other PCs recognised it from some popular Kickstarter thing. Long story short, we got in touch with the sellers and traced it to a guy called Mick Randall. Used to be an up-and-comer in the local Firm. Then he disappeared one day. I had a word with CTF, they thought he’d either copped it or left for an international syndicate. I’ve written his last known address for you on the back of one of the photos.” 

The Firm? What was local British mafia doing getting involved? “Interesting.”

“Anyway, CTF wrote off the park incident as a syndicate throw-down, but I went and took a look through the evidence records all over again. Seems to me like the explosion was really a rocket attack. Precision, on these cars. But I’m guessing you already knew that.” 

“Sorry.” Roxy knew Merlin had fired on the cars that had pursued Eggsy once Eggsy had made it into the lake. Access to precision missiles. Stealth tech that could evade usual security at the Thames. Percival had once said that Merlin was easily the most brilliant quartermaster Kingsman had ever had. What was the quote again? There was only a thin line between genius and madness? 

“And you can’t tell me what that’s about.” At Roxy’s slow nod, Emma sighed. “All right then.” 

“One last thing,” Roxy said. She handed over Jack’s receipt in a plastic baggie. “I’d like you to run the prints on this for me please. I need you to trace the number on the back as well. Ownership records, locations, things like that. On the quiet.” 

Emma didn’t even hesitate, pocketing the baggie. “Sure thing.” 

After brunch, they hugged on the sidewalk. “Take care of yourself, okay?” Emma patted Roxy’s arm. “And I know, you’re some big shot in the spy world now or something, but if you ever need me to back you up somewhere, just give me a call.” 

“I’ll keep that in mind. Thanks for all your help.” 

Roxy bought a burner phone and sat on a bench in a nearby park as she activated the SIM. Then she called Jack’s number. Jack picked up instantly. “Hello?” 

“Hi. Sorry, is Harry there? It’s Roxy.”

“Ah, yep.” There was a faint muffled sound, the phone changing hands. Harry was in arm’s reach. Strange. Or maybe not. Harry took suppressants, but Roxy had always known that he was an alpha. Jack was an omega. Roxy was a beta, so she couldn’t pick up any scent traces off the both of them, but when she’d watched them talk—before Harry had made her—there had been a certain easy chemistry between them. Maybe Jack really was Harry’s boyfriend. Roxy rather doubted it, though.

“Good morning, Roxy,” Harry said. 

“Good morning sir.” Roxy described the shrapnel and the missiles and the possible emergence location from the Thames. She also described, briskly, Eggsy’s altercation with Hesketh and mentioned Randall and Randall’s address. Then she waited as Harry thought this over.

“Hesketh survived?”

“We think so.” 

“You should have mentioned this to me last night,” Harry said. His tone was only mildly reproachful, but Roxy still flushed. 

“Yes sir. Eggsy didn’t think much about it. Thought it was just a personal grudge, since Eggsy maimed him back in Valentine’s hideout. After all, Hesketh didn’t attack the shop, or HQ.”

“Or he hadn’t yet. He would’ve known where the shop and HQ were.”

“But not the houses,” Roxy pointed out. “Sir, I know Charlie Hesketh. He doesn’t have the imagination or resources for an attack like this.”

“But his employers—whomever they might be—might.” There was a long pause, then Harry said, “Roxy, why was there a new Arthur?”

Roxy blinked. “What do you mean?”

“In the shop. I visited London once I was able to travel. Why was there a new Arthur? And why was Eggsy living in my house?”

Roxy hesitated, but only for a moment. There was no harm telling the truth, even if Harry couldn’t quite be trusted again yet. It was old history now, anyway. “Valentine flipped the previous Arthur. So Eggsy took care of him. About your house… uh, Eggsy’s paying rent on his mum’s flat with his salary, but couldn’t afford a place of his own, and he was kinda keeping your place tidy, but he started staying over more often and I guess…” She trailed off. It _had_ been weird that Eggsy had moved in, even if he’d wanted someplace nicer to have his royal girlfriend over. 

“I see.” Harry sounded a little disoriented, but when he spoke again, he was as collected as before. “I’ll text you my new number. Send me a photo of the shrapnel. And I’d like you to investigate Randall.”

“Yes sir.”

#

Randall lived in a nice Soho apartment just off Frith St, surprisingly hipster for someone who had once been British mafia. It was empty, and it was obvious the Yard had come and gone, with furniture still in disarray. Probably hadn’t found anything much, or Emma would’ve mentioned it. Roxy prowled around the two-bedroom flat, gloved up, soft-footed. She found bills in a neat stack on the kitchen table, some of them recent.

Behind her, Diana snuffled around and panted, wagging her tail. “Seek,” Roxy told her, and the poodle obligingly started circling the flat, sniffing the floor. 

During the Lancelot trials, some of the non-graded training sessions had been with K-9 handlers, and of Roxy’s class, only three dogs—including Diana—had taken readily to the sessions. JB, Eggsy’s pug, had spent it sleeping in Eggsy’s pocket. There was a false positive on the glass coffee table—Randall might’ve sampled some product there once, and after a treat Diana started another circuit.

Eventually, they found a wall panel hidden behind a couch, under wallpaper that could be peeled up. Roxy patted Diana and scanned it for explosives with her glasses—offline comms or not, the sensor in it was still working—and then spent fifteen minutes picking the Chubbs lock with a Kingsman toolkit, cursing under her breath while Diana whined and tried to provide emotional support by resting her head on Roxy’s shoulder. 

Within the wall panel was a pile of cash, a phone connected to a wall socket, a Macbook Air, and several passports. Roxy flicked one open. Mick Randall stared back up at her through a grim passport photo. Different name, of course. She took out the Macbook Air and started it up in Recovery Mode. Resetting the admin password using the Terminal, she restarted the laptop and logged in.

After a while, she called Emma. “Hey, free to talk?” 

“Hold on a sec.” The background noise went muffled. Emma was probably backing off somewhere. After a few minutes, Emma spoke again, her voice echoing. Down a stairwell, maybe. “Okay, shoot.”

“Ever heard of the ‘Golden Circle’?” 

“No?” 

“I don’t know if Randall here was delusional or something, but according to his correspondence it’s the biggest drug cartel in the world.” Randall had mediated an acquisition of the Firm’s drugs racket over a year ago on behalf of the ‘Golden Circle’, through a process that looked surprisingly corporate.

“Never heard of it,” Emma said doubtfully. “I’ll check with CTF, but shouldn’t the biggest cartel be Cosa Nostra? Or Camorra and stuff? Or Sinaloa? Maybe Randall was exaggerating.” 

Roxy flicked through the bank of Randall’s photos on his linked iCloud account. Thank the Gods for the Apple ecosystem. There were warehouse images, full of shipping crates. “Nope, somehow I really don’t think so. I’m going to leave the stuff I found on the kitchen table. Or I can mail them to you.”

Emma duly assured Roxy that some unlucky minion would be sent posthaste to the apartment and thank you. While Roxy was saving out select photos, Emma said, “By the way, I’m still working on the phone trace, but I’ve got a match for one set of prints on your receipt.”

“That’s fast.”

“Told you, all hands on deck. Had to pull in favours to keep this hush, though. Anyway, there were two sets of prints. One hasn’t matched with anything yet. The other one came back a match from our American friends at the DOJ, for a Mister Javier Juan Reyes Díaz. Díaz used to be a DEA Special Agent. Sending you the pic.” 

Roxy’s phone pinged. The photo Emma had forward was definitely Jack, if younger, solemn, thinner, no moustache. “Okay, anything else?” Roxy asked. A DEA agent? That was unexpected. 

“He quit ten years ago. Stellar record, even for a young agent. Listed ‘family emergency’ as a reason for quitting. I probably wouldn’t have been able to get my hands on this info if it en’t for how helpful the DOJ is being right now. It was slapped with a weirdly high clearance req. But nobody wants precision missile strikes in their city.” 

“Sounds about right.” 

“After that I Exercised my Initiative and ran the pic through our image recognition software,” Emma said, because she was a treasure and a half, “and you’re not gonna believe this, but Mister Díaz is now Mister Jack Daniels, and he’s some big shot at Statesman. You know, the American liquor company? Talk about moving up in the world.” 

“I know them.” Statesman was one of the most popular American liquor brands in the world. 

Huh. Maybe Jack _had_ been telling the truth. Maybe he really was Harry’s rich American boyfriend, and the reason why he hadn’t lost his shit when he’d looked down a barrel of a gun was because he’d probably seen that and worse before in his earlier life. Roxy stared at the laptop, rubbing her eyes and swallowing a sigh. She’d been running on anger and low sleep and grief and it had made her paranoid. “You know what? Nevermind about the phone trace. I thought it was a lead but it wasn’t.”

“Right. I’ll send someone over for Randall’s stuff, and keep you updated on this ‘Golden Circle’ thing. Take care out there.” 

Roxy hung up, and looked over at Diana, which tilted her head, tail thumping on the carpet. “Maybe I’m too full of myself,” Roxy told her, and Diana wagged her tail harder. 

It didn’t explain Harry’s relatively light injury. Unless Eggsy had been mistaken. Maybe the bullet had… glanced off, or something, and just broken Harry’s glasses and damaged his eye but little else. Harry was still handsome, and an unmated alpha. Maybe a random whirlwind romance with an omega multimillionaire wasn’t _that_ much out of the blue. 

Roxy called Harry, who picked up after a few rings. “Yes?” 

“Randall belonged to a drug cartel called the Golden Circle.”

“Never heard of it.” 

“According to the late Mister Randall, it’s the biggest cartel in the world.”

“That can’t be true. Even if someone were to corner the Afghanistan supply, the global drug trade is too complex for any cartel to achieve an international monopoly. Not to mention they’d have to fight off the bratva, the mafia, the South American cartels—” Harry paused, as though listening to someone, probably Jack. “I’ll have someone look into it. Anything else?” 

“No sir. I’m going to forward you some photos from Randall’s archives. A lot of the recent ones were taken in Phnom Penh. It looks like he had a house in the city. Maybe I can pick up the Golden Circle’s trail from there.”

There was a pause, then Harry said, “Head to RAF Northolt. Someone will meet you at Departures and bring you through. Jack’s arranging a flight.”

“Yes sir,” Roxy said. She patted Diana afterwards as the dog whined. “Don’t look so sad. Maybe Em will put up with you for a few days.” Finding Eggsy would have to wait.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Missiles:  
> IDK about these intercontinental missiles that can be launched towards London from Cambodia XD;; So I’m amending that (and some plot points from the film) a little bit. 
> 
> CTF: Central Task Force, London Police, investigates “class A drug dealers, firearms traffickers and any other criminal group impacting on two or more London Boroughs, particularly criminal networks.”
> 
> Kickstarter 3D printed titanium jewellery: I actually have one of these, and yes if I ever died in a car fire it would probably survive me. It’s technically a titanium alloy, TiAl6V4, which has a melting point of 1650ºC, and car fires don’t get near that high. The missile fired by Merlin was probably some kinda mini Tomahawk-style cruise/guided missile and I can’t find any data on that, so /handwave  
> http://www.waltersforensic.com/articles/fire_investigation/vol3-no1.htm  
> https://www.matbase.com/material-categories/metals/non-ferrous-metals/titanium/material-properties-of-tial6v4-titanium-alloy.html#properties
> 
> Yes it really is super easy to break into a password protected Macbook https://www.macworld.co.uk/how-to/mac/how-hack-into-mac-change-password-3640399/
> 
> Jack is the diminutive for John, aka Juan.


	4. Chapter 4

“Package is on its way,” Jack said, when he came back to tea. They were in the Savoy, seated around a birdcage stand tiered with finger sandwiches, scones, tiny cakes, and pastries. 

“Sorry about the trouble,” Harry said, as Jack grinned at him, patting him on the knee as he sat back down.

“No trouble for you, _darlin’_.” 

Across the table, there was a snort. “All right, you two. That’s enough. I might not have met Jack here before, but I’ve heard of him. And of Statesman.” Tall and handsome, going slowly silver over his dark scalp, Elliot Chase was one of the Lords of War, a loose moniker given to an international arms conglomerate that dealt with anything from antique collectors’ pieces to thermobaric bombs. He had a crisp BBC accent today and wore a yellow scarf over charcoal wool. 

“Pleased to finally meet you, Mister Chase,” Jack said, lounging in his chair and selecting a cucumber sandwich. 

“Perhaps after all this we should talk business. Harry will no doubt be able to recommend us highly.” 

“We have our own suppliers at present, but we’re always happy to do a review on price and quality.” Jack ate a bite of the sandwich. “Pending a demonstration of how helpful you can be.” 

“No need for the carrot and the stick. I’m well aware that I owe Harry here a considerable favour.” Chase glanced at Harry. “One that I believe will be deemed paid in full after my assistance?” At Harry’s slight nod, he smiled, and poured himself a cup of tea, mixing in half a teaspoon of sugar, the delicate spoon tinkling against fine china. “Kingsman was attacked with a variant of the Perseus missiles.” 

“The stealth supersonic cruise missile? That’s still under development by MBDA,” Jack said. 

“You’re well-informed,” Chase said approvingly. “Yes, the plans fortuitously fell into our hands a year or so ago. We envisaged a smaller, lighter version for our clients’ precision strike needs. Nearly the same range, still Mach 5, modified Ramjet motor. Multi-platform, multi-role. Costly, sadly. To date, we’ve had several expressions of interest, but only one client who moved through to a final purchase.”

“The Golden Circle?” Harry asked. 

Chase sighed. “Client information is confidential, Galahad. Favour or not. You know that.” 

Harry managed not to flinch at his code name, abruptly unsettled by the reminder, but Jack flicked a brief glance at him. “That’s not very helpful,” Jack said. 

“I can, however, note that this client, in particular, had an eccentric interest in… strange products, which we were, of course, happy to supply for a price. Mechanical droid attack dogs. Prosthetic arms with enhanced strength and autonomous movement. And a tattoo machine outfitted with a retro dentist’s chair, designed to safely tattoo a human recipient with molten metal in a simple shape.” Chase traced a circle on the tablecloth with a finger. 

“I don’t suppose you might be aware of this client’s base of operations?” Harry asked. 

“All over the world. They’re an international syndicate. We do, however, install modified transponders on all our missiles. Just to keep an eye on our little birds. After all, why sell someone a gun that they might someday turn on you?” Chase drank a sip of his tea, then lightly dabbed his mouth. “Now I really must get going. It’s always a pleasure, Galahad. And I’ll get back to you with some quotes, Mister Daniels. Here’s my card.” 

Jack waited until Chase had left the dining room before slipping Harry the card. There was a latitude and longitude scrawled on the back. “You have useful friends,” Jack said. 

“I’ve been in this business for a while.” Harry selected a scone while Jack choked down the rest of his sandwich and hastily had some tea, pouring in a ludicrous amount of milk. “There’s really no point in drinking tea if you pour in that much milk,” Harry said reproachfully, “not to mention you ordered Darjeeling, which is spoiled by the addition of milk in the first place.” 

“I like milk. I don’t like tea. I just thought I had to order it since we’re at something that’s called ‘Afternoon Tea’,” Jack said, ignoring Harry’s frown as he stirred the milky disaster in his cup. “This is the only way I’m okay with drinking it.” 

“Dear Lord, please don’t compound the mistake by adding so much sugar.” Two cubes? Really?

Jack smirked. “You’re lucky you somehow manage to sound hot even when bitching over nothing. I need _something_ sweet. That was the worst sandwich I’ve ever eaten.”

“Cucumber is traditional,” Harry said, though he smiled, pocketing Chase’s card. 

Jack finished his tea, his eyes unfocusing slightly as he listened to Ginger. “The coordinates match an unmapped point in the Norwegian Sea. Private island, by the looks of it from a satellite scan. Looks uninhabited.”

“I suppose we should pop over and take a closer look.” 

Another pause, then Jack said, “We’ll fly to Leknes and swap for a seaplane. How sure are you that the information’s going to be good?”

“Chase did owe me a favour, but I make it a policy not to trust arms dealers overmuch.” 

“So we might be going in hot.” 

“I usually assume that will be the case.” Better to be pleasantly surprised by life than disappointed. 

Once aboard Jack’s plane, Harry was about to strap down in a chair when Jack hesitated in mid-step. He tilted his head, blinked, then looked sharply over at Harry. “What?” Harry asked.

Jack beckoned. Getting to his feet, Harry followed Jack over to the entertainment room, where Jack made a gesture. The large screen in the room flicked on, and— 

Objectively, Harry _had_ known that Eggsy and Merlin were alive. But it was still such a relief that his next breath shuddered in his throat, and he had to press a palm against the back of the couch. Eggsy and Merlin were tied to chairs, and had been doused with something, not that they looked in the least afraid—Eggsy was smirking at someone off camera. Merlin looked the same, bald, tall and lean in a brown jacket over his dress shirt. Eggsy…

“Pretty boy,” Jack said, his smile sharp, humourless. “That’s Eggsy, I’m guessing.” 

“Where are they?” 

“Tequila caught Merlin taking an axe to one of our whiskey casks. Wasn’t very nice of them.” 

“Why would he…” Harry shook his head. “They’re in Statesman custody?”

“No need to get excited. Ginger, that’s them. Maybe put a stop to things before Tequila gets too excited and sets them on fire, yeah?” 

On screen, there was a too-long pause where Harry felt like he’d stopped breathing, then Ginger rushed into view, apologetic, with towels on hand. Tequila cut them loose, then Ginger glanced at the camera. “Want to put them through?” Jack inquired. 

“Please.” 

“Yeah. Give them a bit of privacy,” Jack told Ginger. He nodded at Harry, his face neutral, and wandered off to the front of the plane. Tequila and Ginger moved out of view, then the audio cut in. 

“—just leaving us in here,” Eggsy had turned to the door, incredulous. Merlin’s jaw dropped. He grabbed Eggsy by the shoulder, staring right at Harry. “What?” Eggsy demanded, turning, then his eyes went wide. “Fuuuck. _Me_.”

“It’s awfully good to see you both,” Harry said, with a faint, wry smile.

“ _Harry_?” Merlin’s voice actually even rose a fraction, his Scottish accent thickening. “How in th’world? Good Lord. I don’t quite believe it.” 

“What happened?” Eggsy got up, peering closer at the screen. “Where are you now? Are you okay? Harry, your _eye_.” 

“One thing at a time,” Harry said. “I did survive the gunshot, with the inadvertent assistance of Statesman, but I lost my memory in the process. After my recovery…” He trailed off. On hindsight, leaving London to collect himself had been irrational. He’d drifted through Paris and Berlin for a while before flying to New York on a whim to look for Jack. 

“Why didn’t you call in?” Eggsy demanded, then he looked around. “Wait. D’you need us to come and get you? Where d’you reckon you are? You been bagged by them Statesman bastards too?” 

“One thing at a time,” Merlin said sharply, and Eggsy subsided, if with a defiant scowl. “Harry. I’m really glad to see you, old friend. Though that suit of yours needs a second fitting.” _Do you need help?_

“I don’t believe so. It fits me fine.” _No I don’t_. “Strange as it may seem, we are among friends. How _did_ you find Statesman?” 

“I opened the Doomsday vault,” Merlin said. “There was a bottle of whiskey inside it with an address on the back of the label and our logo as part of their name.” 

Ah. “Good call.”

“There was an attack on London. That’s why I opened the vault.”

“I’m aware of the attack.”

“We were hacked,” Eggsy said, grimacing. “It was my fault. I got into a fight with Charlie Hesketh—he bloody survived the mountain—and his arm came off in one of our cabs and it accessed our system autonomously. I should’ve fucking checked. Been more careful. Your house. My friend… and everyone and their _families_ , Roxy—”

“Roxy’s alive,” Harry cut in. “She’s on her way to Phnom Penh on a lead.” So that’s what had happened. “You’ll be joining her there. Merlin, you’d be best placed in Kentucky, assisting Ginger. Statesman has a similar internal comms system to Kingsman, though they use contacts or spectacles. I’ll borrow a pair.”

“She’s alive!” Eggsy whooped, grinning broadly. “Aww yes! This day’s been a bloody rollercoaster and a half.” 

“All right. Where are you headed?” Merlin asked, visibly collecting himself. 

“The Norwegian Sea, with another Statesman agent. Investigating a possible lead. Ginger will be able to update you on the situation. Keep in touch.”

Merlin nodded. Eggsy leaned in. “Umm. Harry, I really don’t know how to say how awesome it is to see you. I thought you were dead. I thought I’d never see you again. I’ve got so much to tell you.”

“Catching up can wait until after the mission,” Harry made himself say, and Eggsy looked disappointed for a moment before he nodded.

Harry found Jack outside the plane, smoking. “That’s a filthy habit,” Harry said. 

“You don’t get to tell me what to do.” Jack’s tone was neutral. Flat, even. 

“Something wrong?” Harry asked, too drained for tact. 

Jack eyed him for a long moment. Then he took a long drag of his cigarette and stubbed it out under his heel. “Nah. Let’s go.”

#

On some nascent level, Jack knew that getting pissy over the Eggsy Situation was pretty irrational. Telenovela-esque, even. His mother would’ve been proud. This was exactly the sort of Telemundo shit that Jack hated and that Jack’s mother and aunts adored: iterations of hot older alpha, pretty young beta, rich omega, confusing subtext, amnesia, affairs. Besides, getting angry with someone who was going to be watching his back over the next few hours wasn’t just dumb, it was probably suicidal. Still.

“Can you fly one of these?” Jack asked, nodding at the small blue Otter seaplane at the end of the jetty. 

“It’s been a while, but yes.” Harry had been quiet through the hop to Norway, and he was staring thoughtfully at Jack.

“What? Something on my face?” 

“If I’ve offended you in some way I’d like to apologise,” Harry said carefully. “You’re right, I’ve been rather obnoxious, even though you’ve been nothing but kind and generous.” 

“Okay, what brought this on?” 

“You’re clearly upset with me over something. As you’ve said, I don’t have the right to tell you what to do. And even if I did, it would still be crass. You’re clearly a highly competent and experienced agent in your own right.”

“All right, that’s laying it on thick.” This was the other problem with Harry. He wasn’t just the hottest alpha Jack had ever met, he was also the most charming, damn his hide. Small wonder Eggsy clearly worshipped Harry. 

And yes, of course Jack—and Ginger and Tequila—had watched the feed. Just in case they’d had a wrong impression of Kingsman after all. But so far so good. 

“So what’s wrong?” Harry asked earnestly. 

He couldn’t exactly tell Harry what was really wrong, so Jack said, “Someone just accessed my sealed personnel file. From another life. Before Statesman. Ginger’s running a trace, but it’s a little worrying. The address on that thing would be my parents’ house.” 

“Oh.” Harry, strangely, actually relaxed a little. “Are they all right?” 

“They’ve checked into a hotel for now and they’d keep moving. I’ve asked them to take a holiday.” 

“I’d like to meet them someday,” Harry said politely, and Jack chuckled as they went aboard the seaplane. 

“Yeah, fucking never. Mamá would be way too happy, I’d never hear the end of it. They’re old-fashioned. They’d just assume that we’re dating. ‘Finally, an alpha!’” He rolled his eyes, strapping into a passenger seat. His parents had loved Sofia, even though she was a beta, but telenovela conditioning was hard to shake. Harry shot him a blank look before squeezing past to the cockpit. 

“I don’t understand why some people still think that way. You’re clearly more than capable of taking care of yourself.”

“Eh, relatives. A lot of my aunts still think that everyone needs to be married with babies to be happy. It’s obviously not the case. We’re both doing fine.” 

Harry didn’t answer, pulling on headphones and starting a flight check. He appeared to be a fairly competent pilot, so Jack put on his own headphones and looked out of the window, watching the weather. They were both in thick coats and scarves, not that Jack was particularly happy about it. He liked warm weather. After they saved the world, he resolved to take some time off and fly back down to Chile. Pick a quiet beach somewhere and lie on it. 

On a first overhead pass, the island looked empty. Rocky place, small beach, a short walk across in either direction. On a second pass, Jack noticed a little black hatch in the shadow of a large rock. Harry landed the plane, beaching it. Jack climbed over the slippery rock to the hatch. “Biometric lock. Ginger?” 

“Working on it,” Ginger said. The discreet panel next to the hatch started to flicker as she accessed it remotely. Jack turned to beckon Harry over and hesitated. Harry was still next to the plane, his head tilted, looking up at the sky. Jack followed his gaze. Nothing. 

“What?” Jack asked. “Something up there?” When Harry didn’t respond, Jack tensed, scanning the area. 

“His life signs are normal,” Ginger told him. “Hasn’t been stunned or anything. Heart rate slightly elevated.”

“Harry. Harry?” Jack headed back down to the beach. Harry flinched violently as Jack grabbed his shoulder, wrenching out of Jack’s grip. For a moment he was so disoriented that he looked more like the John Doe Jack had first met than the composed British operative Jack had gotten to know, then he closed his eyes and took in a slow breath. 

“Yes?” Harry asked, a little defensively. 

“How about you stay up here and keep watch.” If Harry was getting some kinda psychotic episode, Jack didn’t want him around on probably hostile territory.

Harry frowned, clearly about to argue, then he appeared to think better of it. “All right.” 

“Keep an eye on him,” Jack said quietly to Ginger, as the biometric panel pinged green. 

He’d forgotten Merlin was there. “What’s wrong with Harry?” Merlin demanded. 

Jack tuned out Ginger’s explanation as he pulled the hatch open and climbed down. The hatch ended in a narrow, dark corridor. Jack accessed infrared vision on his contacts just as Ginger said, “-and we’re still monitoring the situation.” 

“I suppose if that’s all there is to the side-effects it’s still a bloody miracle and a half,” Merlin said admiringly. “That’s not just a step forward in medical technology, it’s an honest-to-Gods _leap_. You’re a genius.” 

“Thanks.” Ginger sounded pleased. “Whiskey, the door you’re coming to has been remotely jammed. I’m unpicking the security. Stand by.” 

The blast door opened to a familiar stench. Jack pulled on Kingsman’s lightweight gas mask, heading in, then freezing as the lights automatically flicked on. He was on a walkway, looking out over a vast underground chamber. Cubed glass offices lined the rest of the mezzanine floor, and part of the chamber was sectioned off, containing crates with the red ‘PERSEUS-II’ text stamped on them. A small, sleek black submarine with a golden circle stamped on its flank sat docked in a long pool that probably had an underwater exit. Jack lowered his gun a fraction. Everyone in the chamber was dead. 

“Ginger, are you seeing this?” 

“Ebola?” Merlin said, then corrected himself. “No, that’d be bleeding from all orifices, not just the eyes. And they’d be prone.” 

“Back out of the room while I do a scan,” Ginger said. Jack stepped out, trying to steady his breathing. He’d counted at least ten people. Some in the offices, most on the ground floor. They were all frozen upright, arms in mid-flail, grotesque statues with gaping, bleeding holes where their eyes had been. 

“Jack?” That was Harry. He sounded worried. 

“Stay up there,” Jack snapped. 

After a long, tense moment, Ginger said, “Looks clear.” 

“But don’t touch any blood with your bare hands.” Merlin paused. “Though we probably need some tissue samples.” 

Jack was gloved up anyway. “Right.”

It was a grisly business, taking tissue samples from all the bodies. Jack climbed aboard the submarine, uploading its logs. Its missile banks were empty. The Perseus crates were also empty. Jack inserted Statesman USBs to a laptop and a PC, and while the decryption ran, he prowled around, locating a pack of pale residue in the kitchens. There were other empty packs in a bin. “Cocaine,” Merlin said, as Jack scanned it. “They were sampling product.” 

Jack pulled a face. “Served them fucking right.” Pushers and users were both wastes of air. 

“Decryption complete,” Ginger said quickly, as Merlin took in a slow breath. “I think that’s all we need from here.” 

“Champ will probably want us to repurpose that submarine,” Jack said, climbing back up to the surface, where, to his exasperation, he found Harry knee-deep in the surf. “What the hell. I told you guys to watch him.”

“We were!” Merlin sounded tense. “I didn’t realize he was walking out _into_ the… Harry. Harry!” 

Harry blinked rapidly as Jack roughly hauled him back up onto the beach. “What… Jack? Everything all right?”

“I think,” Jack said carefully, “that I’d better be the one who flies us back.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Personally I don't like cucumber sandwiches as well, but they are traditional XD;; https://www.theguardian.com/lifeandstyle/2013/jun/13/how-to-make-perfect-cucumber-sandwiches


	5. Chapter 5

Statesman had a facility in Oslo that doubled as their Norwegian HQ. “Why Norway?” Harry asked, as they walked out into an underground firing range, a concrete chamber with target cards stacked at the far end and sets of booths with headphones. 

“Statesman liquor is pretty popular in this part of the world. This office handles distribution.” Jack leaned a hip against the separator fins of one of the booths, folding his arms. “Down here’s as good a place to talk as any while Ginger and Merlin work on sorting out the data from the island’s servers.” 

“Talk? About what?”

“Don’t tell me you’re going to pretend that you spacing out on that island never happened. The hell was that about?” 

Harry took in a slow breath. He’d thought as much, when they’d landed in Oslo instead of flying back to London or waiting in Leknes for further instructions. “You said that there were no other survivors to this procedure. What happened to the others?” Harry tapped on his eye patch. 

Jack narrowed his eyes. “It worked on animals before Ginger tried it on people. And it was never actually meant for headshot wounds. The tech worked fine for patching gunshot wounds quickly in the field. As you know, a lot of people don’t die from the gunshot, they die because they bleed out. And tourniquets might still mean losing the leg or the arm.” 

“Applying it to headshot victims appears to be a bit of a leap.”

“Families were desperate enough to try. The first few didn’t even stabilise. Some of them because we took too long to get to them—most people who get shot in the head never get to the hospital. Some of them stabilised but never woke up. I was the first one to wake up lucid. Didn’t remember anything, like you. But I was shot through here and the bullet didn’t go through anything that would’ve been fatal.” Jack tapped at a point near the back of his skull. “To be honest, Ginger didn’t think you’d wake up, since they took a while to get to you, even though you were also lucky. Bullet went through one side of your brain, not many bone fragments.” 

“I know I’m lucky. You said you had headaches. Was that all?”

“Coordination was off for a bit, but I got over that. So what’s wrong?” 

“I…” Harry hesitated. “I’m not entirely sure.” Beside Jack’s head, a black swallowtail unpeeled itself from the divider fin, then another from Jack’s hat, and another from Jack’s cheek, their white-barred wings flicking lazily in the neon light as they drifted up towards the ceiling. Too late, Harry realized Jack had noticed his distraction. 

“Hallucinating?” Jack asked bluntly. 

“It’s under control.”

“Bullshit. Why the hell did you walk into the sea?” 

Harry had no answer for that. He’d been scanning the skyline, listening to Ginger and Merlin cataloguing the submarine chamber. The next moment he knew he was soaked to the knees and Jack was hauling him up to the shore. “That’s never happened before.” That he knew of. 

“Right. You’re benched. I’m going to send you back to Kentucky, where Merlin and Ginger can keep an eye on you and run some more tests.” 

Harry frowned. “That’s not necessary.” 

“When normal people snap, it can get pretty bad. When people like us have a psychotic episode, it’s usually a natural disaster. I had to handle something like that once,” Jack said, grim. “Became a mass shooting. And even then,” he added, raising his voice when Harry started to object, “that guy still killed fewer people than you did in that church.” 

Harry paled. He did remember the church. He remembered, very distantly, being appalled. And yet at the same time, savagely satisfied. He hadn’t liked anyone in there. He’d always been proud of how good he was at wetwork, in a way, with a craftsman’s pride. Afterwards, horror had only begun to set in when Valentine had confronted him outside the church, and deep down, as Harry looked down the barrel of a gun, past regret and frustration and weariness, he’d actually felt a shameful sort of relief. That someone was here to put him down. The scales, balanced. 

“I wasn’t myself in the church,” Harry said. It was a weak excuse even to his ears.

“Are you yourself now?” Jack shot back. Another swallowtail unpeeled itself, this time over Jack’s left eye, then his right, its wings quivering. Harry looked away, swallowing bile. He closed his eye, forcing his breaths to steady. The touch at his elbow nearly startled him back a step. “Hey,” Jack said, more gently now. “I’m not trying to embarrass you or knock you down.” 

“I know.” 

“But you’re probably a danger to yourself right now. And the mission.” _And me_ , Jack obviously didn’t say.

“I see that,” Harry said reluctantly, though it hurt to admit it. 

“I hear a ‘but’ coming up.”

“You said so yourself on the way to London. If someone had attacked Statesman, killed all the other agents, you would have been angry. You would have stayed angry. Would you have allowed someone else to ‘bench’ you?” 

Jack frowned at him, his hand tightening a fraction on Harry’s elbow. “So you’re going to be stubborn.” 

“Wouldn’t you?” 

“I’m often quite full of myself, I’d be the first to admit, but I’m not _that_ full of myself. If someone tells me I’m not ready for the field I’d usually listen.” 

“I’m fit for the field,” Harry said, trying not to get exasperated. That would probably piss Jack off further, and even ignoring the fact that Kingsman really did need Statesman’s help right now, Harry genuinely didn’t want to fall out of Jack’s good graces permanently. 

The last few days he had spent in Jack’s company had been… different. Harry had spent his adult life living alone, in between missions. The few friends he treasured were almost all in Kingsman, but in a way they were impersonal friendships, close but not intimate. Outside of a mentorship capacity, he would never have dreamed of lecturing someone like Merlin or Percival on something they did that he disapproved of, unless it was relevant to a mission. He would have considered it impolite.

Arguing over trivial matters with Jack had been fun. Natural. Nearly as intimate as sex, in a way, especially when Jack just laughed or bit back in an easy push and pull. Now that Harry took a step back and looked at it, he _had_ been instinctively… alpha, about it all. Rearranging Jack’s wardrobe without permission should’ve made that obvious. Looking for Jack in New York on a whim, even though Statesman clearly had a relaxed opinion of civil liberties. 

“You’re spacing out again,” Jack said. pressed a button on the booth counter, and there was a whir, the first rank of target cards spinning forward. Jack picked up a pair of headphones and tossed Harry a second set. “You think you’re field-ready? Prove it.” 

Harry tried not to visibly relax. He hadn’t fired a gun since the church, but he’d gone longer without practice before without significant deterioration. He put on the headphones and drew his pistol from his side holster, cocking, bracing, aiming.

The shot blew a hole in the target card’s arm instead of its head. The next shot went wide altogether, as Harry tried to compensate. He emptied the magazine and didn’t realize he had a white-knuckled grip on the pistol until Jack gently pulled it out of his hands. Jack didn’t speak. He didn’t have to. Harry was just grateful that he didn’t offer any sympathy, or worse, pity.

Jack didn’t press him for a decision either. Maybe he felt he’d made his point. Logically, Harry knew the right decision was now obvious. And it wasn’t as though he’d be completely useless in Kentucky. He could still offer input. It was hard to swallow, regardless. Harry was terse through dinner at their hotel, and afterwards, heading up, hesitated when Jack wished him good night. “Jack,” Harry said, “I know I didn’t say anything when you booked two rooms, and I don’t want to presume.”

“Yeah?” Jack looked curious rather than wary, but it still hurt to force the rest of the words out of his mouth. 

“I don’t… want to be alone.” The word _tonight_ died unsaid, leaving what he had choked out more honest than he had meant it to be. Jack straightened up, studying Harry, quiet. Just as Harry was going to apologise and wish him a good night in turn, Jack motioned at Harry’s door. 

They took turns to shower and change. Jack’s luggage was in his suite, but Harry had never seen him self-conscious, whether naked or partly dressed or like now, clad only in a soft bathrobe. Harry tried to kiss him but Jack turned his cheek, though when they lay in bed he curled against Harry with his usual casual trust. Jack smelled good. It wasn’t just because of his omega nature. 

For a moment Harry was so deeply grateful that he was glad that Jack’s head was tucked under his chin, that no one could see. He tried to remember the last time he had held someone close like this, without sex, outside of a mission. He’d had relationships before, usually brief. Fewer, as he aged and grew used to being alone. He had thought he was happier alone, that it was an acceptable price to pay for the life he had chosen to lead. Now he knew better. What was he without Kingsman but an old man with an empty life? Faced with death, there had been nothing in Harry’s life worthy of mourning. 

Jack’s breaths were slow and quiet, his eyes closed, but Harry knew he wasn’t asleep. “I’ll go to Kentucky,” Harry said. 

“Ginger will arrange a flight.” 

“Sorry for the trouble.”

Jack snorted. “Don’t be sorry. Be pissed. You didn’t shoot yourself in the eye. Didn’t ask for the fix to screw up your aim. I think you people and your tendency to repress shit is probably contributing to the problem.”

“I don’t think that anger is particularly constructive,” Harry said, though when Jack snorted again, he conceded, “though it has its uses.” 

“I don’t agree. I’ve been married before,” Jack volunteered, to Harry’s surprise. “Sofia was a beta, but it’s possible for a male omega and a female beta to have kids, so our parents didn’t care as long as they got grandkids out of the equation. We met in high school. Both of us got into the DEA, became Special Agents. She was off-duty when it happened. Wasn’t even investigating something. Just decided to take a shortcut through a different neighborhood. She’d been shot fifteen times. Four weeks pregnant.” 

Harry tensed. “My God.”

“The thing is, she should have fucking known, too. Area was bad for meth addicts and dealers. But she’d driven through it before fine. Hell, she’d grown up a few blocks away. And she’d always thought she was invincible. Part of the reason why I loved her to begin with. I was pissed. At everything. Myself, for not being there. The meth addicts and dealers, for fucking being there. And her, for not fucking having to be there. Week after the funeral, I decided to go in and clean up.” 

“You found her killer?”

“More or less. Guns had been discarded in a ditch. Multiple prints. Had a warrant but what’s the point? They’d go to jail, probably, and be out in a few decades. And the killers were just part of the problem. Could’ve been them that day because of a bad trip. Could’ve been someone else another day. Felt good,” Jack said drowsily, oblivious to Harry’s frown, “killing them all. Used their guns instead of mine, made it look like an internal skirmish gone bad.” 

“You got away with it?” Harry found that hard to believe.

“Not really. DEA could probably fucking guess. You can’t really fake forensics on that kinda scale. But my boss had always been fond of me. And he was Sofia’s uncle. So he put a word through to Champ and one thing led to another. I know what you’re gonna say,” Jack said, twisting to look up at him. “I should’ve let the police handle it. Or just killed those who had killed her.”

“I wasn’t going to say anything,” Harry said honestly, “but yes, I do think it was rather excessive, to say the least.” 

“I thought I’d feel guilty afterwards. But I didn’t. I wanted to burn the world down. I was that pissed for a long time. Even with therapy. And no, before you ask, since then I haven’t killed anyone I wasn’t told to. I think anger doesn’t just remind you that you’re alive. I think it reminds you that you have the _right_ to be alive. And that maybe certain people don’t.”

“I’ve never thought that way about anyone.” 

“Yeah? I don’t see you tearing yourself up about the church. Or the fact that your boy cut through a shit ton of people to get to Valentine. And whatever you people did over there, you blew up hundreds of people. Heads of state around the world, for starters. We’re damned lucky things didn’t lurch into World War III. Not trying to argue who’s worse,” Jack said, his eyes hard, “just saying that we’re all in a line of work that suits people who are a certain kinda monster. So there’s nothing wrong with being pissed. Nothing wrong with you not feeling all that guilty for shooting up a church in the circumstances. Or me and a few meth labs. It’s just how we are.”

Jack’s words sat uneasily with him. Harry was quiet for a while, but when Jack didn’t sound like he was about to sleep anytime soon, Harry eventually said, “Butterflies. That’s the hallucination. I keep seeing them peel out of things, now and then. Walls. Your face.” 

Jack actually shuddered. “Thanks for the visual. I hate bugs. Don’t laugh.” 

“I wasn’t going to,” Harry said, though he hid a grin against Jack’s hair. 

“So that’s it? You just see butterflies now and then? Shit. The way you were starting to act, I thought it was going to be like the goddamned Exorcist, but with guns.”

“I won’t be crawling up walls anytime soon,” Harry assured him. “And generally, I don’t… lose focus.”

“That you know of.”

“I concede that.” 

“So why butterflies, d’you know? I thought you really liked them. You kept insisting that you were a leipo, leipter—”

“Lepidopterist. I still am, in a way. I had a collection in my house. Nothing too rare. I was, at best, just a keen amateur. I haven’t even managed to see all fifty-nine British species.”

“… So in your downtime you. Chase bugs. And then pin them to boards.” 

“Well, not any species protected by law. And no, not often of late. I’m no longer young enough to go haring across a moor with a butterfly net. And besides, nowadays it generally just invites suspicion. It’s become rather unfashionable to be a creature collector of any sort. Nabokov used to be a lepidopterist,” Harry said reproachfully, as Jack started to laugh.

“The more you get to know people, the weirder they get. No, this is good. You were kinda too perfect before.” Jack smirked.

“You mean, despite the obnoxiousness and the hallucinations and being, I quote, ‘the most anal person in the world’?” Harry said, bemused. 

“Thanks for reminding me. True, you’re actually just another asshole. Not sure why I’m here.” Jack poked his nose. “So why butterflies?” he asked again, when Harry tried to think of a suitable answer. 

“I suppose it’s a reminder of another life, of what could have been. I didn’t want to join the Army. My father talked me into it, because we’d always been a military family. I wanted to be a scientist. I’d always had a keen interest in living things, particularly butterflies. Strange how things work out.” He was now more of a dealer of death than a preserver, and he had been this way for so long that he didn’t even think about it anymore. “I did enlist, but I had a bitter row with my father over it, and never went home, not even for my mother’s funeral. Or for his.”

Jack was silent for a while. “Life works out in funny ways.”

“That it does.” 

“It’s okay to regret things too, by the way. Hell, I do. I’ve got a history of making bad decisions and refusing to back down until I’m made to. I usually regret it afterwards, but people still get hurt.” 

“You?” Jack was always so composed, so unflappable. “I find that hard to believe.” 

This time, when Harry bent to kiss Jack, Jack didn’t flinch back. The kiss was tentative, the nervous negotiation of new boundaries, now that they knew more of each other than they should. Jack’s lips were soft and yielding and his tongue pressed against Harry’s with a wet and eager fervour, his fingertips skating up Harry’s spine, over the back of his neck, digging lightly into his hair. Harry could smell Jack getting wet, in the otherwise sterile chill of the room, but Jack caught his wrist as he slipped his hand down to the belt of Jack’s bathrobe.

“You’ve got a long flight tomorrow,” Jack said, unreadable. 

“Ah. Yes. Good night.” 

Jack squirmed against him until Harry was pressed against his back, an arm loose over Jack’s waist. Harry nuzzled the back of Jack’s throat, trying to memorise his scent. Weeks ago, dazed by Jack’s heat, Harry had tried to bite him, and only the mouth guard had stopped a bonding. Jack had laughed at him, said something teasing that Harry didn’t remember. A bite without a heat bond in place wouldn’t take, but as Harry kissed the right spot, Jack shivered and nudged fingers against his jaw. “Go to sleep,” Jack told him, neutral again. 

“I know I’m not that lucky,” Harry said lightly, trying for humour, but Jack merely sniffed, going quiet.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> How did Gaby Giffords survive a gunshot to the head: http://www.bbc.com/news/world-us-canada-12148446  
> https://www.theguardian.com/environment/2010/oct/05/how-i-became-a-lepidopterist


	6. Chapter 6

It was definitely unprofessional for the both of them to whoop and yell and hug and slap each other on the backs when Roxy met Eggsy at Arrivals, but Roxy didn’t give a damn. “Fuuuck,” Eggsy said, crushing her against him. He sounded like he was crying. “I think my heart stopped, y’know. When I thought…” 

“I’m glad you’re okay.” 

They held each other for a moment longer, then Eggsy pulled away, composed and grinning, though his eyes were a little red. “Damn it’s good to see you.”

“And you. So how did the rest of the dinner ago?” Roxy asked, as they picked their way through the mass of fellow travellers, heading to the car park. 

“With Tilde’s folks? I don’t remember. I think I was crying. Blubbering, really. Fucking bombed it. Tilde somehow managed to calm her parents while packing me into a car for the airport. I think it helped that the news was splashed all over the BBC. I called her after on the way to Kentucky and she told me it was okay, that her parents understood after she came clean to them about what I really did for a living, but I dunno. It’s all a bit shit, innit.” 

“They handle that well?” Roxy asked. Out in the humid, stifling heat of the car park, Eggsy visibly grimaced, but kept pace beside her. “About what Kingsman really is?” 

“Dunno. Didn’t really ask. I should. I’ve been a shit boyfriend. And a shit friend. I didn’t even figure that Harry was alive. Should’ve guessed when nobody found the body.” 

“I didn’t figure it either,” Roxy assured him. “And neither did Merlin, so don’t feel too bad.” 

“Well, I do,” Eggsy said, as Roxy cranked up the AC in the secondhand Toyota Camry she’d rented. The cars were everywhere in Phnom Penh, nice and unobtrusive. “I feel terrible about it. I didn’t even get to tell him, because he was working a lead. I mean. I moved into his _house_.”

“Why did you do that?”

“I don’t even rightly know. First few days after the Valentine thing were a mess. Don’t think I would’ve gotten through it without you guys. And Tilde. Big come down. Being in Harry’s house was weirdly calming, somehow. Everything in there is in perfect order. The books. Even his clothes are arranged in order. His tie drawer, I tell you, is bloody scary. After a while I got used to tidying up, then Tilde started coming over, and…” Eggsy shrugged helplessly. “I shouldn’t have done that. Brandon and JB would’ve still been alive.”

Roxy held her tongue. If Eggsy’s residential address had been the apartment, it wouldn’t just have been Eggsy’s mum and sister who would have died in Brandon’s place, the collateral casualties would likely have been horrendous. The fact that none of the agents, including Roxy, lived in flats had minimised the overall death toll. Kept it within the family, as it were. “I’m going to pop by the hotel so you can change into something more touristy. We’re going to have to blend in.” 

“Sure.” 

Roxy tried a smile. “Thought for a moment that you were going to give me a Harry-like lecture.” 

That got a laugh out of Eggsy, at least. “Me? Naw. I like normal duds as much as anyone. Don’t tell Harry.” 

“We’ve got a few hours to burn. I was meant to check out a lead’s house here, but during the flight Harry called in. Jack’s contact in Interpol’s arranging for someone to meet us here to give us a local debrief. Seems the Golden Circle’s already known to them.” 

“Who’s Jack?”

Roxy looked at Eggsy with surprise. “Didn’t you see anyone with Harry?”

“Nope. When he called in, he was alone. In some swanky jet, though.”

“Oh.” Roxy debated briefly whether to keep secrets, but then again, Jack had been pretty open about his relationship. “Harry’s new boyfriend. Rich American guy, an executive at Statesman. You know, the liquor company?”

Eggsy actually twisted in his seat to stare at her. “Don’t you mean the American Kingsman people?” 

Roxy pulled up out of traffic into a parking slot at a side street. Then she took a deep breath. “So I was fucking right all along!” 

“Wow.” Eggsy goggled. “I don’t think I’ve ever heard you swear before.” 

Roxy started to speak, swallowed it, then held up a finger. “You start. Catch me up. You left Sweden. Then?” 

“Landed in London. Rushed over to me house… I mean, Harry’s house. But it was gone. Brandon, JB…” Eggsy looked away briefly, composing himself. “Then Merlin steps out and I’m like fuck me, was it fucking Merlin all along? I nearly shoot him. But he tells me we got hacked. It was my fault, Roxy. When I beat Hesketh up, his prosthetic arm came off in the cab and I didn’t burn that shit with fire. I didn’t know it could do the Monkey Hand shit and move by itself. It hacked our systems.” 

Roxy relaxed, sinking into her seat. “Damn. I thought it had to be Merlin.” 

“It’s not. I swear it’s not. Anyway, Merlin, I mean, the previous Merlin told our Merlin that if shit ever goes down, he’s got to open a Doomsday Vault. So we go and open it. ‘Cept it’s only got a bottle of whiskey. With the Statesman label. Address on the back. We book it to Kentucky and find the Statesman distillery and take a peek. They kinda get pissed because Merlin hit a whiskey cask with an axe and it done sprung a leak—”

“Why did he do that? Nevermind. Keep going.”

“—and long story short, we find ourselves sitting in a room and this screen pops on and it’s fucking Harry, aite, with an eyepatch, and I think I nearly pass out. He tells me to come meet you in Phnom Penh, that he’s investigating another lead in the Norwegian Sea with some other Statesman agent.” 

That had to be Jack. “I ran into Harry outside his house in London. You’d probably left for Kentucky by then. He was chatting up some guy against a car.” She summed up the rest of the meeting for Eggsy, as well as what Emma had dug up on Jack. 

“I don’t think they’re the bad guys. Seriously, that Ginger lady was pretty nice to us. Agent Tequila, too. Offered to take us out for lunch at his cousin’s place as an apology. And that bottle we found in our Vault had our logo on it. Their vault had a Kingsman umbrella with their logo on it.”

“I guess so.” Maybe Harry had forgotten to update her. And they _were_ meeting Jack’s contact. She pulled back out into traffic. 

“So. Really Harry’s boyfriend?”

“No.” Roxy paused. Harry _had_ been pretty close to Jack on both occasions. “Don’t think so.” That easy chemistry. “Probably.”

“‘Cos it would kinda maybe explain why he didn’t just come back to London. If he met someone while he was getting better in the same line of work. Makes things easier.” 

“And an omega.” 

“Oh, I see.” Eggsy blinked for a while, then he smiled. Was it forced? Roxy couldn’t really tell. In many ways, Eggsy was still an open book, but he was getting better at control. Or, as Eggsy would put it, ‘faking it’. “And it’d be why he was willing to go to the Norwegian Sea with someone else. Merlin used to tell me Harry was always a one man, one job kinda agent. Hated working with people.” 

True. “Everything okay?”

Eggsy stared at her. His surprise looked genuine. “Why not?”

“You and Harry were pretty close.”

He laughed. “What? You thought? Oh man. It wasn’t like that. Never was. Harry’s amazing. I think he’s the most amazing person I’ve ever met. But it’s not like that.”

“All right,” Roxy said carefully. 

At the hotel, Eggsy changed in their shared suite—they were posing as newlyweds on a honeymoon adventure—and as they got into Roxy’s car, Eggsy said, “Did Harry ever think…” He trailed off. “Never mind.” 

Eggsy looked pensive. Roxy paused in the middle of starting up the car, and patted Eggsy on the knee. “Everything okay?”

“Yeah. I just. I never thought things might come off that way to anyone.”

“You moved into his house,” Roxy said dryly. 

“ _After_ I thought he was dead, bruv.” Eggsy flushed. “I hope Harry didn’t take that the wrong way. I’d feel like a real tool on top of everything.” 

“He was your mentor,” Roxy said, “so it wouldn’t have been appropriate even if he did. Sorry I brought it up. I’ll make it up to you. There’s a place in the Russian Market which does a really awesome noodle fry up.” 

Eggsy frowned. “We’re in Cambodia. Why’s there a place called the _Russian_ Market?”

#

Jack’s Interpol contact met them in the back room of a grilled beef restaurant, a narrow shophouse in a line of other shophouses that smelled strongly of smoke, charcoal, and fermented fish sauce. Khemera was a genial Cambodian man of indeterminate age, shorter than Roxy, shaved bald, out of uniform in a t-shirt and shorts. “Agents Galahad and Lancelot?”

They shook hands all round and settled around a listing plastic fold-up table. “It’s late, but normally I would buy a round of food and drinks anyway. Still, I think with what just happened, we don’t have time,” Khemera said apologetically. He spoke crisp, only faintly accented English. 

Roxy nodded. Merlin had forwarded the Golden Circle’s broadcast to them when they had been in the hotel getting kitted up for the meeting, and had briefed them about what Harry and Jack had found in the Norwegian Sea. The threat was real, even if the logic escaped Roxy. Tampered product that eventually caused death? A hostage situation that could be solved by the US President’s executive order? Weird. “Understandably.” 

“As you may or may not know, the lady in the broadcast is Poppy Adams, the head of the Golden Circle. Interpol has been following their movements for a while. They first came to our attention when there was a rumour that somehow, someone had managed to unite the big South American cartels. We thought it was improbable, and the cartels were still more or less operating along the same lines, so we dismissed it. Until the Italians fell in line. Even the Camorra, who don’t even have a stratified system like Cosa Nostra.”

“Why did they target Kingsman?” Eggsy asked. He’d been tense. Tilde, of all people, had apparently smoked infected product. She hadn’t wanted to say anything, but her mother the Queen had contacted Eggsy. 

“Ah, well,” Khemera smiled wryly. “All our contract work goes to Kingsman. Over the years, Kingsman has been very successful in breaking up cartel operations across the globe with minimal unnecessary casualties. We just didn’t know—at the start—that it was all more or less the same cartel, under different fronts. And we didn’t expect them to take direct action against Kingsman.” 

“That aside,” Roxy said, “I don’t understand Poppy’s motives. She wants the American President to sign an executive order legalising all drugs, and in exchange she’d release the antidote? I don’t see why he wouldn’t do it and then reverse it later. He’s been busy reversing his predecessor’s executive orders. Or Congress could block it from taking real effect.”

“She’d just poison the next batch of product if the President negotiated in bad faith. Regardless, I don’t think legitimacy is what Poppy really wants. It was a show of power.” Khemera said. “The Golden Circle is the biggest cartel in the world, but there are holdouts. With this stunt, she might be able to scare the others into negotiating with her. Especially the bratva.”

“Scare the Russian mafia? Good luck with that,” Merlin muttered into their earpieces.

“I don’t know if the American President will care that much either. After all, his country already has an ongoing ophoid crisis, and he hasn’t bothered to approach that in any meaningful way.” The last few weeks had roundly eroded Roxy’s faith in the American political system.

“Besides,” Eggsy said gloomily, “given how that election worked out, pretty sure he could drop kick a baby across Fifth Avenue and still get re-elected. Footage would either be ‘fake news’ or Fox would just say that the baby deserved it.”

“American political analysis aside, we do believe Poppy’s hideout is somewhere in the Cambodian jungle. The address that Whiskey passed me is a known distribution point of theirs for Phnom Penh. Supplies for Poppy often get processed there before getting driven to the jungle.” 

“Sounds straightforward. Can’t you guys trace the trucks?” Eggsy asked. He shifted restlessly in his seat, and only stilled when Roxy shot him a warning stare. 

“There’s a reason why Poppy’s chosen Cambodia for her base of operations. She’s bought off both the ruling party and the opposition party. And given recent instability, they’ve been more consumed with internal politics and civil unrest than addressing our concerns. Sadly, you’re both on your own. I’ve taken this meeting with the both of you only as a favour to Jack. Right now, until the global hostage situation is resolved, Interpol doesn’t want to make a move that might aggravate things further. Too many lives at stake,” Khemera said quietly.

“We’re used to operating on our own. Thanks for seeing us,” Eggsy said. 

Khemera rose to his feet, shaking hands. “Good luck. May we meet again in better circumstances.” 

Once he was gone, Eggsy said, “We don’t know if Poppy’s base has the antidote.” Eggsy checked his phone, then tried a call. After a while, he frowned and put his phone away.

“Still not answering calls?” Roxy asked sympathetically. 

“Yeah. I know she doesn’t want me to worry, but I’m now fucking worried.” 

“Agent Whiskey and the other Galahad are investigating new leads,” Ginger said soothingly. 

Roxy nodded. “See? All hands on deck. If we do our job it’d work out.” 

“I was gonna ask her to marry me,” Eggsy confessed. “I know, it’s pretty soon, and hell, I don’t even know if she’d say yes. But I’m sure she’s the one, y’know? She’s awesome, smart, funny…” Eggsy trailed off, with a deep sigh. “Okay. You’re right. Let’s go.” 

“It’s like a fairytale again. Save the princess, kill the bad guy. It’d work out just like the last time,” Roxy said, as they got into the car. 

Eggsy pulled a face at her. “I don’t think of my girlfriend as part of some kinda gross reward system. She’s her own person. If anything, if she says ‘yes’, and that’s a really big if—I’m marrying the hell up, not her.” 

“Just so you keep that in mind.”

#

Randall’s house was on the outskirts of Phnom Penh, in a heavily fortified compound. Eggsy set a distraction on the far end of the compound—nothing complicated, just setting an outhouse on fire with incendiary rounds—and as the guards clustered over, Roxy scaled the wall with Kingsman grips, flattening a section of the barbed wire with a magnetic clamp. Even with Eggsy running interference, she wouldn’t have much time. Dropping noiselessly into the compound, Roxy followed the shadows.

She found the supply trucks under a tarp. Two were refrigerator trucks, one was a lorry. Tagging each under its belly with a tracker, Roxy was about to head back the way she came when she saw a pair of Rottweilers sniffing at the spot where she’d dropped down.

“Dogs,” Roxy whispered. 

“Use the dart gun,” Ginger said into the earpiece. “There’s a dog-specific ammunition.”

“What does that do?” Roxy asked, a little suspiciously. She’d grudgingly gotten armed from the Statesman armoury aboard the plane that had met her in RAF Northolt, but some of the devices had looked suspect. 

“Briefly turns off their sense of smell. It won’t hurt them.” 

“Okay.” Roxy crawled under the nearest truck, drawing the dart gun and the neat case of capsule darts from her back holster. She loaded it with the right capsules and took aim. The dogs flinched, looking around sharply, whining. The small silvery pods embedded in their haunches dissipated into dust even as someone approached, patting one dog and looking around. Roxy held her breath. Eventually, the dogs were led away. 

“Nice,” Roxy whispered. 

“Environmentally friendly too,” Ginger said.

“I think I like you more than Merlin already.” On the same channel, she could hear Eggsy stifle a laugh. Merlin sniffed, clearly deciding not to reply. 

Roxy scaled the wall, remove the clamp, and found Eggsy already waiting in the car, a few blocks back. “Too easy,” he said, grinning.

“Don’t get overconfident,” Roxy said, just as she heard a now familiar, high pitched whistling sound, almost out of the edges of hearing. “Shit!” She lunged over, jamming her foot against the accelerator even as Eggsy yelped. The car surged forward. The missile kicked up a plume of dirt and asphalt behind them, stealing sound away into a faint ringing. The Toyota flipped, glass shattering. Dazed, Roxy lay on the roof of the car, breathing in tight gasps. Eggsy’s mouth was opening, but she couldn’t hear the words. He was unbuckling himself, landing awkwardly against her, kicking at the door until it opened. They crawled out onto the road, limping into the forest just in time to see a plume of fire open up further down. 

“So much for the trackers,” Eggsy said, once their hearing returned. His face was scraped, and he was picking glass out of the back of his palm. 

Roxy leaned against a tree, grimacing. Several ribs felt cracked. She probably had glass in her cheek. “How did we get made?” 

Nobody had an answer. They found an untended motorcycle another block down and rewired it, heading back into Phnom Penh. The answer was waiting for them in a huge crowd gathered around the beef restaurant. Someone had grilled Khemera to death and dumped the charred remains on the street.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> https://www.interpol.int/Member-countries/Asia-South-Pacific/Cambodia
> 
> Ginger+Merlin commentary: So as not to have to handle far too many characters all the time, I’m just going to have them have a policy of not saying anything/logged on unless a mission is in progress.
> 
> I've been trying to write fics in a way that don't require context for canon, since I know some people don't watch or read the canon and just read the fics, but describing The Broadcast is going to be pretty boring. If you haven't watched Kingsman, GC, basically Poppy poisoned her own product such that anyone who smokes/injects/etc her drugs would develop this weird blue vein thing that results in hallucination then stasis and death. In exchange for somehow globally distributing the antidote in time, she wants the President of the USA to sign an executive order legalising all drugs and ending the war on drugs.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Warning** : This chapter changes the rating of this fic to E.

The submarine base turned out to be a bit of a red herring. The data on its servers had a list of some possible base locations, none of which were in Cambodia, and none of which, after consultation with Jack’s Interpol and DEA friends, were likely candidates for antidote labs. He sent Statesman agents after them anyway, at which point they finally had some luck.

“Clara von Gluckfberg landed in Cointrin Airport on an Interpol-flagged passport. Then she took a helicopter that logged a flightpath to a location on the Italian side of the Alps.” Jack summed up, as the plane prepared to make the four hour hop to Geneva. 

“Should I know that name?” Harry asked. He’d been carefully polite since Jack had changed his mind about kicking Harry back to Kentucky. 

Not that Jack had actually been persuaded, per se, just that Harry had calmly said that in the light of Poppy Adams’ unhinged broadcast and how time-sensitive the situation had become, Harry was going to help whether Jack liked it or not, and he could charter his own plane to Geneva if he wanted to. 

Smug bastard.

“Known associate of Charlie Hesketh. Girlfriend, according to Eggsy. Ginger’s team flagged the name after talking to Eggsy, and referenced it with Interpol. Turns out Clara’s been a bad girl in her own right. Albanian mafia, one of the large clans. Same deal as Randall. Dropped off the radar, probably resurfaced in the Golden Circle with a fancy new tattoo.” 

“Surely Poppy wouldn’t go to the bother of having every member of her cartel get a tattoo on that special chair. If Clara has a gold tattoo, she’s probably inner circle,” Harry said.

“Exactly. Interpol’s put the word out about golden tattoos. Hers was scanned at Cointrin. Not surprising that she was desperate and might’ve gotten careless. Someone’s been sampling product.” They were in the entertainment section of the plane. As Jack spoke, Ginger flicked a grainy CCTV image onto the screen of a blonde woman with tell-tale blue veins going up her cheeks. 

“Poppy hasn’t shown that she’s been particularly attached to any of her associates, but Charlie’s possibly attached enough to his girlfriend to sneak her a dose of the antidote,” Harry surmised. 

Jack nodded. “Worth checking out. Ginger, how are Eggsy and Roxy doing in Cambodia?”

“They’re about to meet your Interpol contact. Roxy’s casing the restaurant first, just in case,” Ginger said.

“Sounds like things are under control, so I’m going to take a nap. See you two on the other side,” he told Ginger and Merlin. Before they could respond, he switched the screen off, then his contacts, and reached over to pull off Harry’s glasses, folding them up on a side table. “Off the record,” Jack said, now no longer bothering to hide his annoyance, “I really don’t fucking want you here.”

“So I gathered,” Harry said, so very reasonably, “and as I said, I’d do my best not to get in your way.” 

“Why _are_ you here? Maybe ten years ago you could’ve given me a run for my money, but not any longer. And I can handle the mission by myself.”

“It’s not a competition. And I thought I might keep an eye on you.” Harry smiled, with little humour. “Off the record.”

Jack narrowed his eyes. “What.”

“The fact that you’re certainly sufficient for the mission isn’t in question. But you’re not particularly sympathetic, shall we say, to drug users.”

“You think I’m going to sabotage the mission,” Jack said, incredulous. When Harry didn’t answer, he growled, “You do? That’s it. I’m throwing you off this plane.”

“I heard you in the submarine chamber. ‘Served them fucking right’, wasn’t it? And you did ‘clean out’ a block of people just because of proximity.” 

Jack’s lip curled. This would teach him to confide in a goddamned alpha. “Did you miss the part where I said I haven’t killed anyone I haven’t been told to kill since then?”

“I certainly didn’t miss your complete lack of remorse,” Harry said. He sighed heavily. “And I understand it, more than I would like. As you said, this job attracts a certain sort of character. That’s why all Kingsman agents must also adhere to a code of conduct and comportment at all times. To temper the worst within us. To give us a moral compass to follow even if remorse and guilt aren’t forthcoming.”

“I can’t believe you’re lecturing me on shit like this,” Jack said, incredulous. “Fuck you and your ‘moral compass’. You people kill for money. Same as us. You can dress it up and put a fancy umbrella on it but you know it’s the same.”

“We choose the jobs that we take. Hopefully Statesman is the same way,” Harry replied evenly. “We’re not Blackwater with gadgets.” 

Jack clenched his hands together so tightly that his nails dug into his skin. “This is a pretty quick about face from before.”

“Last night I wasn’t aware that a few million people worldwide were about to be held hostage to a madwoman’s whims. Including your colleague Agent Tequila. And Eggsy’s girlfriend.” 

“Oh, I see.” Jack sneered. “You were willing to trust me up until the point where your boy has some skin in the game.” 

“No.” Harry narrowed his eye. Finally the first flash of temper. “Eggsy has nothing to do with this. I was willing to trust you. I still am. I’m just saying that given I still don’t know you all that well, and I have reason to believe from your background that you may have a personal stake in all this that doesn’t necessarily—”

“I lost Sofia ten _years_ ago, all right?” Jack snarled. “Sure. Ten years ago, right after I lost her, when everything still hurt and I wanted to hurt the world right back, you’d be better off shooting me.” He mimed a shot through the temple, and Harry visibly flinched. “Now? If I wanted to sabotage the mission there’s a hundred ways I could’ve done it already without you ever finding out. For starters, I would’ve been a lot less free with calling in Interpol favours.”

“I’m not accusing you of sabotage.” 

“You pretty much did. What would even be the point? The cartel itself, all the way down to the dealers, would still be in place. So what if the users die? There’d be more users. Hell, I don’t even see why Poppy is going through with this idiot plan. She’s just about to kill off her consumers and scare any survivors or would-be buyers to rival dealers. The whole thing is bad business.” 

“I suppose it might make alcohol the drug of choice,” Harry said, a little facetiously. Jack let out a startled laugh, despite his anger, and Harry smiled wryly. Goddamned too-charming asshole. Jack wanted to break his jaw. Throw him off the plane. Dig his fingernails into his throat and bite down until he broke that iron control. Instead, Jack stalked over to the bar to pour himself a shot of bourbon. He wished he could smoke. Violence shook through his blood with each breath. 

Jack bit it down. He stared at his glass, and poured himself another shot and downed it. “You’re shitting me. What kind of reason is that? If alcohol was a ready alternative to these people there wouldn’t be a goddamned opioid crisis. That’s… _cartoon_ bad guy reasoning. And to be honest, I’m a lot pissed off that you thought I’d throw a mission like this.” 

Messed up brain injury fix or not, Harry was as quick as a cat and just as silent. Jack stiffened as Harry leaned beside him at the bar. “You get angry often?”

“Not this kind of angry, no,” Jack said, and belatedly realized he’d slipped when Harry made a soft _hmm_. He’d let Harry get under his skin. “It’s been a while since I’ve had someone bitch me out on a mission for no reason.” 

“I did have a reason.” 

“If you’re going to start all over again, I swear—” 

“Kicked off the plane, yes,” Harry said, _amused_ , the asshole. And fuck. 

Right now, twitchy with simmering rage and venomous, the cards could fall one way or the other, and Jack didn’t really want to start punching. If anything, he hated breaking shit inside his plane. So he poured a third shot, tipped it into his mouth, and hauled Harry over, kissing him with the bourbon on his tongue. It was messy and wet and the alcohol burned a little on the way down but Harry groaned and bracketed him against the bar, licking greedily into his mouth, then chasing the spill down his throat. Hands tucked over Jack’s hips, squeezing lightly, and Harry growled, “Jack.” 

No alpha register. Not bad. Jack cupped a palm over the growing bulge in Harry’s trousers and squeezed, a fraction too hard for pleasure. “I should leave you high and dry, you smug bastard.”

Harry purred, pushing into Jack’s grip anyway, mouth nudged against Jack’s throat, scenting him. “I really have met no one quite like you,” Harry whispered, and it was difficult not to be flattered by the hushed awe in Harry’s tone. Harry’s hands were sketching reverent circles over Jack’s thighs instead of trying to cop a feel, and he shuddered as Jack relented enough to allow a second kiss. Their mouths lingered on each other, lips catching wetly against teeth, breathing in each other’s air. 

“Okay, fine,” Jack said, only slightly pitchy, “you can stay on the plane.” 

“It’s a few hours to Geneva.” 

“And you think you’re going to get lucky?” 

Harry smiled tentatively. “I think it’s best not to assume anything where you’re concerned.”

“So it’s possible to teach an old alpha some new tricks,” Jack leaned his elbows back against the bar. “It’s been fun. But putting aside the fact that I’m still pissed off, I’m not interested in being a stand-in for someone else.” 

Harry blinked at him. “What?”

“You and Eggsy?”

“Eggsy has a girlfriend.” Harry paused. “And besides… Wait, you thought… It really isn’t like that. I’ve already told you.” 

“I try not to make it a habit of sleeping with people who think I’m an idiot,” Jack said flatly. 

Harry exhaled. He reached over to pour himself a shot of bourbon, drinking that down and setting the glass back on the counter. “All right. Yes, Eggsy is a beautiful young man. Were I not his mentor, and were I twenty years younger, with no Swedish Princesses in the equation, maybe, yes. I prefer not to dwell on could-have-beens.”

“Age is just a number.” 

“ _And_ ,” Harry said firmly, inches away, close enough that Jack could smell bourbon and musk, “I meant it when I said I’ve met no one like you. You’re gorgeous. I can’t believe you’re not mated. Even with… even with what happened in the past. You disarm me just by being here. You’re smart, funny, dangerous, and yes, you’re a better agent than I am. Even when I was your age.” 

“Laying it on thick,” Jack said, though he was flattered anyway, the ugly knot in his gut starting to ease. 

“I don’t care. It’s true. When Valentine shot me the last thing I regretted was how lonely my life was, with nothing to fill it but work. I don’t regret that any longer. If the life I had built for myself wasn’t so brittle I wouldn’t have gone looking for you in New York on a whim. And if you don’t want me to touch you again, that’s your prerogative. I’m grateful for the time you’ve already given me.” 

Hell. 

Maybe doing the telenovela thing was in his blood. Jack grumbled under his breath and pressed his palms to Harry’s cheeks, pulling him over. This time they kissed with a hungry tension, one that Jack recognised from his heat, when Harry had kissed as though he wanted to scour himself against Jack, to drink him down and breathe him in until only uneven boundaries could exist between them. Jack remembered the dazed wounded sound Harry had choked out when the mouth guard had gotten in the way of a bonding bite. Harry was making it again, pressing its imprint between their mouths. 

Somehow they did make it to the bed without tripping over too much furniture, shedding jackets and shoes and holsters. Knives. Jack started to laugh as Harry ran his fingers up Jack’s ankle before unbuckling his ankle sheath, sprawled on the bed, not bothering to help. “I’m mourning what’s left of my self-respect,” Jack told him. “Pretty sure you seriously ticked me off not that long ago.”

“It did appear so,” Harry said, peeling off the sock after the knife sheath, lifting Jack’s foot to mouth a kiss over his ankle. 

“I think you’re not even sorry about it.” 

“Not particularly,” Harry admitted, “but I can simulate remorse if the alternative is being kicked out of bed.” 

He smiled faintly as Jack rolled his eyes and motioned him up. The rest of their clothes and weapons got pulled and shoved off as they kissed, Jack kneading Harry’s firm ass, pinching hard as Harry growled and shifted down. He mouthed over old scars and older memories, tracing his way down with jerky impatience until he was licking Jack’s cock with slow, hard swipes of his tongue, sucking teasingly at the tip as Jack cursed and gripped his shoulders, then licking again. 

Annoyed, Jack pushed his fingers down between his thighs to touch himself. Harry growled, an alpha sound this time that he didn’t bite down, lifting Jack’s hips with easy strength, following the valley between Jack’s fingers to his wet seam. He licked around Jack’s fingers as Jack groaned, opening himself up roughly, yelping as Harry thrust his tongue inside. He was rumbling now as he licked loudly, his single eye closed tight with concentration. Jack smeared wet fingers over Harry’s cheek and Harry whined, licking harder, until Jack was squirming and hissing and shoving at his shoulders. 

Once Harry let up, Jack started to twist around, only to snarl as Harry tugged him over to the edge of the bed, pulling Jack over his lap, feet braced against the carpet. The kiss was messy, wet with saliva and Jack’s own juices and Harry was making that rumbling alpha sound again, a far cry from the composure he’d had even without his memory and bent against the cusp of Jack’s heat. 

They both groaned when Jack guided Harry inside him, the stretch uneven outside of heat, nearly too painful. Jack’s breaths were harsh against Harry’s ear but Harry had gone quiet, his mouth twitching, fingertips jerking against Jack’s hips in spasms, the only hint that his control was still shaky. They kissed when Jack was seated, messy and slow, bourbon and sex. Jack moved in his own time. Harry braced his weight and drove against him, his breaths going shallow, then shallower yet, until he had a hand shoved between them, tugging at Jack’s cock as Jack ground against him. Christ, it felt good.

“Bite me,” Jack told him, and grinned as Harry jerked against him with a hoarse sound. He bit Jack on his throat, close to the proper spot, working in teeth as Jack laughed and rocked down and spilled into Harry’s grip. He went pliant, listening to Harry purr and rock against him until Harry kissed him over the bite.

“Getting close,” Harry said roughly. Being knotted nowhere near heat often hurt, especially with an alpha as big as Harry. Jack knew some omegas who liked it, but he wasn’t one of them. He nuzzled Harry’s throat, shifting up onto his knees, and watched Harry curse and stroke himself and finish against Jack’s thigh, hand curled tightly against his knot. 

Harry was the fastidious one, so Jack lay in bed and let Harry handle clean up, yawning as Harry finally tucked behind him, scenting his throat. “Think my mother would like you,” Jack said sleepily, “though she’d probably assume you’re after my money.”

“A valid consideration,” Harry said, pressing a chuckle against his neck. “What about your father?”

“He’s easier. Just smile and nod when he talks to you about fútbol and you’ll be fine. If he asks you whether you know any Chilean teams the safe answer is Colo-Colo.” 

“I’ll read up.” So were truces and more carefully declared.

Jack hummed. “So how do you propose to stay out of my way? Merlin and Ginger have already shown they’re not very good at watching you. I can’t keep an eye on you all the time.” He paused. “Maybe we could rig up one of those dog collars to spritz you with water whenever you start spacing out.” 

Harry coughed. “I don’t think that’s necessary. Nor might it work.”

True, Harry had walked into a freezing cold _sea_ without snapping out of it. “I’m still waiting for a workable solution. Mind you,” Jack said, “in my opinion, you should stay on the plane and watch like Ginger and Merlin do. You can’t shoot straight and you space out.”

“I’m aware of that,” Harry said tightly. “I’d still prefer to stay close by.”

“Still don’t trust me, huh?” It was a little difficult to stay irritated. Maybe that was the point. Say nice things, sate the omega and calm down any ruffled feathers: profit. 

“The mission is yours to run,” Harry said, which wasn’t really much of an answer.

“Elevated position, sniper nest. Merlin can be your spotter,” Jack said, after a long pause. With Merlin running recalibration on top of a high powered scope, hopefully Harry would shoot the right targets. And if he spaced out, he likely wouldn’t be in danger. 

“Sounds good.” 

“We’ve got a CheyTac Intervention on board. Used one of those before?” 

“Familiar. Yes.” 

Jack stared at him. “Are you… You’re seriously going to lecture me on my armoury.” 

“I wasn’t about to,” Harry said, and promptly proved himself a liar by adding, “I was just going to mention that I prefer the AW.” 

“Just because it’s British? Please. The Intervention’s the most accurate rifle in the world.”

“The AW’s half the weight and doesn’t need custom amm—“ Jack kissed Harry, who tensed for a moment before licking into his mouth, and when they broke, Harry took the hint, settling back down. This was probably going to be a disaster overall, but Jack closed his eyes and listened to Harry’s breathing slow, lulled into sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just to be clear, no I have nothing personally against age gap pairings, or the mentorship thing, as should be pretty obvious from the number of Hartwin fics I’ve written to date. :) This fic just happens to be Hartskey, not Hartwin. 
> 
> http://topyaps.com/top-10-best-sniper-rifles-for-modern-warfare


	8. Chapter 8

They ordered room service for breakfast, because going out swathed in band-aids and compresses wasn’t exactly going to let them Blend In. At least nothing was going to scar. Eggsy lay on the couch in the suite, glum, while Roxy checked her emails. Nothing from Emma. With the hostage situation on, apparently even the missile investigation had been shelved for now, while the police collected everyone who had been poisoned into a mass treatment facility. 

“Nothing yet?” Roxy asked sympathetically.

“Nope. Tilde doesn’t want to talk. I spoke to her mum again last night. Felt like a fraud when I assured her we were working the job.” 

“We _are_.” 

“But nothing’s getting done and we got no more leads. Now we’re cooling our heels here. We _know_ Poppy’s in Cambodia somewhere. Khemera said so before…” Eggsy grimaced. He’d taken Khemera’s death harder than Roxy thought he would. Granted, it had been gruesome, but even Jack had only responded to Roxy’s message with a terse affirmation. 

“Everything okay?” Roxy asked. 

Eggsy stared at his blank phone. “He died because he talked to us. You know that.”

“He probably did. And he would’ve known that it was a possibility.” 

“I wish we could. I don’t know, do something for his family. Or say something. I’ve never had someone die because of me before.” Eggsy turned his face away hurriedly, but he badly stifled a sniff. 

“And we will. After the mission,” Roxy said carefully. 

“You’re so _calm_. Just like Harry. How do you guys do it?”

“I’m mad about Khemera dying too,” Roxy said, though it wasn’t really true. She wasn’t upset the way Eggsy was upset. “I’m just compartmentalising.”

“That’s what I meant. How’d you guys do it?”

“I was always going to join Kingsman.” It wasn’t much of an answer, or probably what the answer Eggsy was hoping for, but it was all Roxy had. “Growing up I always thought Alasdair—that’s Percival—was the coolest person in the world. Even though my own mum was MI5. I loved his stories, even though he never really went into specifics. His kids weren’t interested in the family business, but I was. I enlisted in the Army to get a tour under my belt just so I could qualify for Kingsman someday.” Roxy smiled wryly. “He would’ve compartmentalised.”

Eggsy started to answer, only to straighten up at a knock on the door. “Room service,” someone said, in thickly accented English. Roxy walked quietly over, opening the door to check, leaving the chain in. It was only hotel staff with a trolley: an elderly Cambodian lady with wispy hair tucked under a maid’s cap. Roxy unchained the door and opened it, smiling politely. 

“Thank you, just leave it anywhere.” She closed the door, patting herself down. “Mike,” she said, using the name Eggsy had checked in with, “I don’t have my wallet on me for a tip, could you—”

“Here’s a tip,” the lady said dryly, “after you get made, you shouldn’t just move to the hotel next door. Oh, put that away. I don’t have much time,” she added, ignoring Roxy as Roxy reached within her jacket for her gun. “Thida Vannath. Head of Interpol, Cambodian Bureau. Go on. Do a check.”

“Visual match confirmed,” Merlin said into their ears. He paused. “Be very nice to her, please.”

“It’s an honour, ma’am,” Eggsy said earnestly, leaping up from the couch, “and we’re really sorry about Khemera.” 

“Sit down,” Thida said, shuffling over and closing the curtains, then briskly arranging plates and cutlery on a table. “We’re probably being watched. They didn’t manage to get audio in your room, thanks to your gadgets, I suppose, but there’s visual from the apartment across the street.”

“Then you’re probably in danger,” Roxy said.

“Maybe. Maybe not. I keep a low profile and I’m more careful than Khemera. Told him not to contact the two of you directly, but that boy has never been a good listener. Probably why he ended up owing someone like Jack a favour in the first place,” Thida said bitterly. She turned from the table, lips thinned. “I don’t like mercenaries and I don’t like that we pay mercenaries. But needs must, and all that. You may or may not be pleased to know that you weren’t the ones who led the Golden Circle to Khemera.” 

“D’you know who did that to him?” Eggsy asked keenly. 

“Local gang, probably paid off. Don’t bother. Revenge is pointless. Results are what count. Before he met you, Khemera was keeping tabs on a man we believe to be Poppy Adams’ personal lawyer. Khemera got careless there. He was probably tailed to the restaurant.” Thida started briskly arranging bowls of fruit and pastries on the table, and glared at Eggsy when he tried to help. He sat down quickly on the couch, looking contrite. “We believe he’ll be visiting Poppy personally tomorrow, to get her approval and signature on his final draft of the agreement she intends to sign with the American President.” 

Roxy blinked. “Would that even hold water?” 

Thida shrugged. “Who knows. Is that relevant? This lawyer is your chance to find Poppy.”

“Khemera said Interpol didn’t want to get directly involved,” Eggsy said. 

“And we don’t. The lawyer’s name is Max Bailey. He works for Richmond Smithy Cairns, which maintains an office in Phnom Penh. Do what you like with that information.” Dishes set out, Thida started to push the trolley back towards the door. 

“Thanks for coming to see us,” Roxy said, reaching for the door. 

Thida grunted. “Lives at stake. And I don’t want to risk any more operatives. Don’t fuck this up again.” When Roxy opened the door, Thida dropped her eyes, shrinking in on herself, smiling and bobbing her head as she pushed the cart out. 

“We should’ve asked her for money,” Roxy said, as she wandered over to the dining table in the suite. Interpol was a Kingsman client already, after all. 

Eggsy let out a startled laugh. “Shove off. I was ready to hide behind the couch, me. She was scary.” 

“The previous Arthur once made the same comment,” Merlin told them. “Eat up. And quickly. She’s right, you’re both going to have to move.”

“Max Bailey is a partner in Richmond Smithy Cairns, an international firm, offices in London, New York, Shanghai, Tokyo, Australia, Cambodia,” Ginger said. 

“Bit of an odd one out there.” Eggsy was happily helping himself to eggs and toast. 

“It’s their newest office. If we could get a look at their server that would be great. I’m also forwarding the both of you Max Bailey’s photograph off his firm’s website.” Their phones pinged. 

“Kinda looks a little bit like your long lost cousin, Merlin,” Eggsy said, peering at the saturnine picture of a bald white man that they had received.

Merlin sighed. “Do concentrate on the mission, Galahad.” 

“Are we also calling Harry ‘Galahad’?” Ginger asked. “I didn’t get around to bringing this up earlier. But it’s getting a little confusing.” 

“Harry’s still Galahad. You people can call me whatever you want.” Eggsy said loyally. 

“We’ll sort that out later. At least you’re all on different assignments, which makes things slightly less confusing,” Merlin said. 

“How _is_ Harry doing?” Eggsy asked.

#

Jack would also have liked to know how Harry was doing, because he’d never particularly liked having unstable people armed with high powered rifles at his back, friendly or not. Still, the fact that Harry had gone quiet, Merlin hadn’t freaked out, and nobody appeared to have fallen off a cliff looked like a good sign.

“How are the kids doing?” Jack asked Ginger, as he carefully scaled the cliff face. It had been slow going, going the long way around and now up. Using the cable car would be too visible. It was freezing cold, and the sky was dark, waiting the advent of dawn. The helicopter Clara had chartered from Geneva had logged a flight path to what was, on paper, a luxury ski resort. 

“Lancelot and… uh, the other Galahad—”

“Let’s just call the younger one Galahad Junior and the older one Galahad Classic.” 

Ginger started to giggle, which she stifled with a cough. There was a very faint sigh from Harry. Good sign. No butterflies yet, then. “They ran into Thida.” 

“Vannath? Their balls still intact?” Jack whistled. 

“Apparently so, yes. She gave them a lead, which they’re investigating.” 

“Huh. If she came down personally from her high tower to talk to a couple of ‘mercenaries’, she must be more worried about Poppy than we thought.” Jack glanced down, then back up. About a hundred metres to go. “Bad business with Khemera.”

“Good friend of yours?” 

“Nah. He owed me a favour but we weren’t friends. He was friends with Sofia. She was the one who liked making friends.” It was a lot easier to talk about Sofia now, the way it hadn’t been even just half a decade ago, when it had still hurt. “They met at some security conference and kept in touch. If Vannath’s started being free with leads, means Cambodia’s Bureau been keeping an eye on the Golden Circle for a while.”

“Sounded like it.” There was a muffled click, then Ginger said, “Everything all right with Harry? We’re on a private channel.”

“Not in the same room as Merlin?” 

“We thought it might be too distracting if the situation became kinetic. He’s in a spare handler’s room.”

“Good.” Jack glanced up. Still nothing on the proximity radar. He kept climbing. “No, things are not ‘all right’. The man’s hallucinating and having blackouts. I don’t even think he’s any use right now. But as long as he doesn’t shoot me in the back I’ll be happy.” 

“So why did you let him into the mission?” 

Jack grumbled under his breath. “Because he’s been fucking stubborn about it, that’s why.”

“When has that mattered to you? You _could_ have overpowered him on the plane and sedated him. Merlin would’ve understood.”

Jack scowled to himself. He’d actually briefly considered that, when he’d woken up close to landing and found Harry still asleep. And yet here they were. Fucking telenovela conditioning. “Just letting our new allies feel included. Gold star for participation and all that. Who’s watching the kids?” 

“Merlin is. They’re on a stake-out, so nothing much is happening on that front. Or on Harry’s.”

“Hopefully it stays that way.” Eventually, Jack climbed up to the underside of the resort. The foundations had been sunk into the rock, and after some careful groping Jack found a service hatch that he unlocked with some cursing, pulling himself up. Zero light vision kicked in. He was in a narrow service corridor, lined with pipes, and _what the hell that was obviously a bomb_ — 

“Okay, stay calm,” Ginger said firmly, as Jack stared at the dull black panel with a blinking blue light that was attached to a pale brick of Semtex. “I don’t register any tripwires in the vicinity.” 

“Don’t need you to tell me that,” Jack muttered, pulling the hatch closed behind him. A faint click told him that they were back on a main channel. 

“Jack,” Harry said, worried. 

“Shut up. Relevant comm chatter only. Ginger, this would be a nice time to tell me that you can render this inert remotely.” 

“There’s a new gel pack in the kit. If you encase the receiver in it, it’d calcify and prevent the bomb from being remotely activated. Probably.”

Jack froze in the middle of sorting through his kit. “What do you mean, probably?”

“This will be the first time an agent is testing it in the field,” Ginger said brightly. “I’m recording the results.”

“I fucking hate you,” Jack said feelingly, because this was peak typical Ginger, “and this isn’t even the first fucking time you’ve pulled ‘field test’ shit like this on me.” 

Thankfully, nothing blew up as Jack sprayed the quick-setting gel over the brick, at which point he pried it carefully off the pipe and dropped it out of the service hatch. As he inched crept along the service corridor, Ginger said, “Wow, I didn’t think that would happen.”

“What?”

“That it’d let you pry it off the pipe without triggering.” 

Jack froze. “What the fuck. Why didn’t you say anything?”

“I was going to!” 

Jack closed his eyes briefly and made yet another mental note to vindictively vote against Ginger yet again on whatever project or question she next brought up before the board. He could be professional on a mission, but nobody told him he couldn’t be petty. 

“There’s another block over there,” Ginger said helpfully, “under the vent. But maybe this time round you shouldn’t pry it off.” 

“This place is wired to blow? What is _wrong_ with these people?”

A careful search of the service corridor revealed no further Semtex bricks, though Jack was wary as he hauled himself into a vent. The stainless steel around him was freezing. “If the facility’s rigged to self-destruct,” Harry said over comms, “they’d likely have affixed Semtex bricks to all main foundation pillars.” 

“Yes, thanks so much for stating the obvious,” Jack growled. 

“I was just—”

“No. The answer is no. You’re staying put.”

“I was going to say,” Harry said patiently, “that it’s quite likely that we have the right facility, if there’s a self-destruct sequence installed. We probably should notify the Italian authorities to stand by and prepare to take over. Unless Statesman is able to handle mass distribution of the antidote.”

“Let’s not get too ahead of ourselves.” Jack shot back.

“Once we get a positive ID of an antidote cache, I have a direct line to Interpol’s Italian Bureau,” Ginger assured Harry. 

“How did Poppy intend to distribute the antidote worldwide?” Merlin asked. “D’you think she has a system here for something like that?”

“How _could_ she distribute it unless she’s somehow able to track everyone who’s infected? Like I said. Bad logic. And bad for business.” Jack peeked into the first grille, but could only see an empty meeting room. 

“Maybe she has some sort of drone fleet?” Ginger was actually giving a madwoman’s plan serious thought. “Not that I know of any that could fly intercontinental. Maybe she has various global distribution points. Or. Okay. I see your point. She can’t feasibly save everyone in time.” 

“If she’s trying to scare the other cartels into submission…” Jack trailed off as the vent reached a junction. He climbed upwards with Statesman grips, as noiselessly as he could, until he came to yet another junction. This one was a tighter fit, but after an indeterminable struggle, he finally came to a grille that looked out over factory floor. Vats of some golden liquid that reminded Jack uncomfortably of urine were being piped into tiny little glass bottles by machines along conveyor belts. He stared, bemused. 

“Is that the antidote?” Ginger asked. 

“It’s either the antidote, or some kinda new drug, or some kinda sex watersports thing that I don’t want to know about.” Jack started to quietly unscrew the grille.

“It’s a visual match for the bottle in Poppy’s video,” Merlin said, a little reproachfully, “but now you’ve given me a mental impression of the product that I can’t erase.” 

Jack ignored him. “Ginger, heat sigs.”

Ginger was quiet for a while, then she said, “Two stationary, vat to your left, four patrolling the mezzanine, four in offices to the far right. All appear to be male.” 

No sign of Clara. Hm. Jack stopped unscrewing the grille. He could take everyone out stealthily if he wanted to. But he hadn’t liked the look of all that Semtex. He kept moving down the vent. “Got in touch with Interpol?”

“They’d be standing by,” Ginger assured him.

After a few dead ends, Jack finally found the admin floor. It was early enough that it was empty, so he let himself out of the grille and dropped down behind a line of cubicles. Selecting the closest unattended computer, he attached a Statesman USB to the back of the tower, and found a helpful emergency evacuation map tacked to the door. The facility was made out of three main levels, of which the main floor was storage and the factory. 

Jack was about to climb back into the vent just as Ginger said, “All right, we’re in. Full access. CCTV’s placing Clara just outside the factory floor. She’s in some sort of lobby or reception area in front of the storage sector, arguing with someone. Still infected.” 

“Arguing?”

“There’s no audio, but an autoread of his lips is running.” Ginger paused. “He’s telling her that he doesn’t have authorisation to hand her a sample of the antidote.” 

“Right. That’s confirmation. Get Interpol to start moving in.” Jack flattened himself against a wall and glanced out of the nearest window. He could see patrols in the compound below, guarding a car park full of covered trucks and, further away, a helipad that was occupied by a red helicopter. Clara’s ride. “How’s the air flow for this place?”

Ginger hesitated for a while. “Filtered. You won’t be able to gas the area.”

“Nobody said life had to be easy.” Slow and steady then. Jack screwed suppressors onto his gun and loaded the dart gun with sleep darts. “How’s Harry doing? He’s been quiet for a while.” 

“Watching,” Merlin said, with only the faintest tension to his voice to tell Jack that something was possibly going wrong. 

“Watching my back?”

Merlin was silent for a while. “I think he’s watching _something_.” 

Fucking butterflies, then. Jack took in a slow breath, and walked noiselessly to the door. After a moment, the lock flicked green. Jack pushed it open, creeping out. There was a guard beyond, his back turned. Jack stepped quietly behind him and broke his neck, caught the body as he started to fall, and hauled him back into the admin room. 

“Four other life signs in this sector, all armed. Eight beyond.”

“That’s it? You’d think they’d give me a better challenge.” 

“You still have two more floors,” Ginger reminded him. “And possible explosive charges. _And_ there might be reinforcements.” 

“Ah.” Merlin coughed. “Well, about that. Charlie Hesketh just stepped out onto the landing of the lower cable car access.” 

“Great.” This was fine. Jack hadn’t been expecting much out of Harry anyway. He could handle this himself—

“Also,” Merlin said, tense, “I do believe it’s only going to be a matter of time until Hesketh spots Harry.” 

Well, fuck. “Jack,” Ginger said softly. “Interpol’s given me an ETA. Half an hour.” 

“Gotcha.” The mission. Always, the mission. Jack looked over his shoulder at the windows. Then he cursed under his breath.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> PAX Australia is on this weekend so since I like to post the final 2 chapters together, I'd probably only be able to close this fic this weekend or next week. :3


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a two chapter update :3

Anyone who unironically loved Intervention rifles really should be tasked with hauling the 14kg monsters up a mountain at least once in their lives. Harry leaned against a tree once he was near the agreed spot, breathing hard. His arms ached. Yet another reminder that he really wasn’t young any longer. 

The spot they’d marked out based on satellite imaging was an out-of-the-wind spot hidden by a copse of firs, high up the slope on the leeward side, away from the cable car access platform. Once Harry caught his breath, he set the rifle up on the ridge, then went back down the slope to brush away his prints with a fallen branch. He arranged debris from firs until he was fairly sure he couldn’t be immediately spotted from the ground, then he settled down to adjust the scope. 

“Jack and Ginger have gone off-comm,” Merlin said, as Harry sighted down the scope. “I still have access to vis though. He’s just climbing.” 

“I don’t have a problem with that,” Harry lied. He wished he didn’t. He did want to trust Statesman, trust _Jack_ , but Harry hadn’t become a veteran in the Great Game by easily trusting people. 

“I agree with Agent Whiskey, by the way. You’re not fit for the field.” 

“So you’ve said.” 

Merlin exhaled. “You’re still so blasted stubborn. This isn’t because Whiskey is an omega, is it?”

“No, of course not.”

“Kingsman’s recruitment tends to obviously slant alpha,” Merlin said, ignoring Harry, “No omega has ever become a Knight. Roxy Morton was the first beta to qualify for a seat, even.” 

“And I’ve told the Round Table before, at length, why I felt diversity was necessary in our selection process.” If Kingsman ever rose from the ashes, Harry was going to make it a point to ensure that the new selection process didn’t just run across genders and social class but race as well. 

“You’re missing my point,” Merlin said patiently.

“What _is_ your point then?”

“You’re notorious for refusing to work with partners. Now that you have to for this mission, I suppose it’s unsurprising to me that although you do tolerate the omega agent’s presence you also undercut him at almost every turn.”

“That’s an exaggeration.” Harry paused. “And I do have valid reasons for insisting on being present.” 

“Just as long as you’re completely sure that they’re the right reasons,” Merlin said gruffly. 

Harry sighed, but stayed quiet. Part of his vision peeled into a small window, showing him whatever Jack was seeing. The long climb, then a hatch. The _bomb_. There was a faint click as Merlin switched them back to the open channel. 

“Jack,” Harry said, worried despite himself. If there were bombs—

“Shut up. Relevant comm chatter only. Ginger, this would be a nice time to tell me that you can render this inert remotely.”

Jack _was_ good. He sniped at Ginger, but his movements were unhurried, perfectly calm. Still, with the structure wired to blow, there’d be more Semtex, and Harry said so. Unsurprisingly, Jack instantly told him to stay put, and wouldn’t budge on the point. 

Harry was about to make a duly cutting remark about relying on Interpol when a Monarch peeled itself off the snow close to the barrel of the gun. Instead of taking wing, like most of the butterflies he ‘saw’, it crawled up the bipod mount, crawling along the narrow barrel until the tip of the muzzle break. Another unpeeled itself slowly from the box magazine, struggling to get free, as though the gun was a conglomerate chrysalis, poised to transform. More orange and black butterflies crawled slowly over the optical sight, the stock, Harry’s arm, until he could no longer see his shearling sleeve.

He was in the middle of the swarm. Butterflies were unpeeling themselves from every flat surface: the firs, the snow, Harry’s hat, the brush, in brilliant black-tipped shards. Here was life and death and life again—surely the swarm had come to the Alps in mistake. They would die in the snow. If they were leaving eggs behind the larvae would also die. Harry tried to shake the butterflies off his arm, and they rose in a lazy cloud that drifted for inches before flitting back to the snow. He gently swept the ones clustered on the rifle off, but they too floated down to the snow, wings flattening into thin edges over their backs.

Dimly, Harry was aware of someone shouting, but it was a long way away and didn’t appear to be important. Were the Monarch butterflies here because of Harry? He shook butterflies free of his other arm, and got carefully to his feet, displacing but not crushing any of the butterflies on his back and legs. Making shooing gestures, Harry managed to get the butterflies clustered around the gun to take flight. 

Satisfied, he started to make his way down the slope, gently shooing butterflies off the nearby fir trees and the snow. They burst away from his feet in slow spinning fragments, brilliant half-memories that brushed his fingertips with gentle regret. As the butterflies scattered away from their cluster one remained on the snow, wings abruptly opening flat, indifferent to the explosion of colour away from it. 

It was not a Monarch but a Peacock, common to English gardens, the very first butterfly Harry had loved, the first he had killed. He had been a boy. The bright red butterfly with its warning ‘eye’ patterns had fascinated him by the way it was designed to scare away predators. The butterfly hissed when tipped into a jar, and in the jar it had starved and died. So was Harry’s first real brush with death inextricable from love. Life and death and love again. Harry knelt, reaching for the Peacock. 

Something punched him off his feet. Harry landed in the snow, gasping for air. Breathing hurt. Ribs cracked or broken. Harry blinked, and the butterflies shuttered away, replaced by Hesketh, grinning, limbering up, his prosthetic hand clenching and unclenching. 

“-arry!” Merlin shouted into the earpiece. 

Harry said an ungentlemanly word that he would later deny knowing, and rolled hastily away as the prosthetic fist detached in an explosive burst, punching a flurry of snow away from where Harry had been. Harry flicked the dagger up his sleeve into his palm, twisting the blade into the cable and driving it into the earth with all his weight. 

Hesketh snarled, drawing and cocking a gun. Harry darted away as he fired, bullets hissing past. Something sloughed through his thigh in a bright pulse of pain. Harry ducked behind a tree, wincing, drawing his own pistol.

His first shot went wide. Hesketh blinked, startled, then he began to laugh. “The great Harry Hart. I grew up on stories about you,” he said, as he jerked the dagger free of the ground and tossed it aside, winding his hand back into the socket. “My sponsor ‘Arthur’ was my uncle, you see. He’d mention you now and then.” 

“Your uncle was a traitor.” Harry chanced another shot, but it only spat up a puff of snow next to Hesketh’s foot. He ducked away from the tree as the next punch smashed through the trunk where Harry’s head had been. Harry lunged closer. This time his shot punched high through Hesketh’s shoulder, near point-blank, but before he could readjust and put the next bullet through his chest, Hesketh roared and tackled him, tangling them both up in the snow. 

Pneumatics hissed and whirred as Hesketh drew his hand back for a punch, but Harry braced himself and headbutted Hesketh smartly in the face, heard the _crunch_ of Hesketh’s nose giving way. Hesketh screamed, flinching back and onto his ass, but before Harry could get fully to his feet Hesketh’s hand discharged, punching into his shoulder with a crack, shattering bone, hard enough to spin Harry down onto his face. Harry spat out blood-speckled snow, dazed with pain. He’d dropped his gun. Collarbone fracture, at the least. Hesketh flipped Harry onto his back. Steel fingers closed around Harry’s throat, starting to squeeze. 

Kneeling beside him, Hesketh smiled as Harry choked and clawed at a wrist that would not give. “You were a hero once upon a time, Galahad,” Hesketh told him. “But even heroes grow old and die.” 

Harry wheezed, heels kicking furrows into the snow. Black butterflies were unpeeling from Hesketh’s face, of a species he couldn’t identify, with tiny white skulls on their backs. If this was death, Harry was unsurprised to find that it was beautiful. His fingers fell away from Hesketh’s wrist, the butterflies drifting closer. Then the pressure on Harry’s throat was easing abruptly, Hesketh stumbling back with a cry. Someone—a gunshot—had shattered the prosthetic arm at the elbow joint. 

“Gun!” Merlin barked. “Right side! Pick up the gun!” 

Harry obeyed out of sheer habit, even though doing so made him moan with agony. He lay on his back, bracing for the shot, and emptied the magazine. This close, bad aim didn’t matter. Afterwards, Harry lay on the snow, watching the butterflies with no name crawl over his fingertips.

Eventually, after forever, someone pressed cold fingers against his throat, checking his pulse. Something hissed and compressed around his thigh, and there was a sting against his neck, the pain quickly easing. Harry looked up. “Hang in there, old man. Help’s on its way,” Jack said, cradling his head. 

“The base?” 

“Secure.” 

Now he could rest. Harry closed his eye, breathing out. “You really ought to buy a better hat.”

#

At lunch, Bailey popped out across the road to an upscale air-conditioned, crowded noodle restaurant popular with tourists and expatriates, where it was a simple enough bit of sleight-of-hand to spike Bailey’s bowl of noodle soup with Ginger’s weird-arse tracker.

“I hope _that’s_ environmentally friendly,” Eggsy said afterwards, as they followed the blip at a safe distance in another rented Toyota. “Do I want to know why the instruction manual had scientific diagrams of, well.”

“Naughty bits?” Roxy asked dryly.

“To put it generically, yes.” Eggsy had been mildly horrified. 

“It was a bit of an inside joke involving suppositories that would take too long to explain,” Ginger said, “but yes, having the target swallow it works best.” 

“I don’t get American humour,” Eggsy said, then amended, “I don’t get Americans.” 

“Well, what don’t you understand?” Ginger asked. Merlin was apparently busy directing the Interpol takeover of the antidote lab, something that had put Eggsy in a considerably better mood. Antidotes were being flown out posthaste. 

“A friend of mine once told me that you people have these things called state fairs, aite.” 

“Yes?”

“Is it true you people deep fry butter and eat it?” 

There was a long pause. “Yes, in certain parts of the country, sadly.” 

Eggsy made a gagging sound. “I’m sorry. That’s. Just. Ugh. Why?”

“Believe me, on the scale of things right now, that’s probably one of the less objectionable things about this country,” Ginger said. “Hell, the reason why Cambodia’s the way it is right now is because America bombed it for no valid reason.” 

“Which President was that under?” Eggsy asked.

“Nixon. And Henry Kissinger. ‘Anything that flies on anything that moves’, I think the bombing orders were.”

“And Washington wants Cambodia to repay its war debt to the USA,” Roxy said, being more up to date on the matter thanks to having actually read all of her daily briefings, not just the interesting bits. 

“That’s… very American,” Eggsy said, after a pause. “Not that us British really have a leg to stand on where this kinda thing is concerned.”

Bailey took a helicopter from a restricted warehouse area, the black chopper lifting up away from Phnom Penh, heading east. “Following via air is going to be obvious. I’ll track his exact route while the two of you head back to the plane. We’ll airdrop you in,” Ginger said.

“Aren’t there are lot of landmines in Cambodia? Like 8-10 million at last estimate?” Roxy asked warily. “Not sure that we can randomly airdrop in on anything.” 

“True. The trucks delivering food and necessities to Poppy’s base have to have a clean route up and through the forest. I’ll trace it backwards from wherever Bailey ends up,” Ginger said, after a moment’s thought.

Bailey flew to an illegal logging camp, on the verge of a devastated swathe of forest. A muddy dirt road snaked from the camp through the logged sector, ostensibly for timber trucks, probably providing cover for Poppy’s supply trucks. Beyond the camp the forest rose unhindered up a sloping rise that fed into deeper mountains. 

“He went on foot, so it can’t be too far from here. Sending you his exact route,” Ginger said.

“Probably best to retrace that. But we’d take a sweeper just in case.” Roxy opened the case in the back of their car, which they had hidden off-road in the scattered tree line and covered with branches. “Any reason why it looks like a baseball bat?”

“Another inside joke, I’m afraid.” Ginger sounded apologetic. They waited, hidden, as Bailey returned—using the exact route—and flew off. Poppy’s hideout was about forty minutes’ walk through the forest and back. 

“Moving out. I’ll take point,” Roxy said, as they strapped on their gear and did a last check. Eggsy nodded. He flashed her a grin, briefly fierce with excitement, then it was shuttered away. 

The right path was parked with tiny dots of gold at the bottom of select trees, unnoticeable if they hadn’t been looking out for a sign. Roxy swept the way anyway, wishing it wasn’t so hot and humid. She was sticky in her suit, her blouse stuck to her, and her bound hair still felt heavy on her head. 

“What I don’t get is, why did she still bother with the lawyer and the documents?” Eggsy murmured, as they picked their way carefully through the forest. “We’ve found the antidote.” 

“Presumably she’d poison her product again with something else? Who knows.” Roxy hadn’t had much of a good opinion about Poppy Adams’ plan to begin with. It was so flagrantly villain-with-a-white-cat grandiose that she wasn’t even sure what to make of it. At least Valentine’s plan had some logic, flawed as it was. 

When Poppy’s base came into view, things made slightly more sense. It looked like a movie set, recently abandoned. Eggsy rubbed his eyes. “Not really sure what I’m looking at. Is that a _movie theatre_? And uh, a diner?” 

“Twenty-four heat sigs,” Ginger said, by way of an answer. “Judging from the patterns, I think we have a hostage situation in the theatre.” 

“Who what?” Eggsy asked. 

“Sir Elton John?” Roxy guessed. 

“Nooo.” Eggsy gawped. “Elton John? He’s still alive? And he’s here? Oh man. Me mum’s going to be _so_ jelly.”

“Concentrate on the mission, Galahad,” Ginger told him. “I do hope the two of you have a plan.” 

Roxy and Eggsy looked at each other. Then Eggsy grinned. “It’s called Pax Americana. Right through the front door, nevermind jurisdiction, I reckon.”

“I don’t know why I bother with young agents,” Ginger said, though she was stifling a laugh.

“Young? You can’t be that much older than us,” Eggsy told her. 

Ginger chuckled. “And how old do you think I am, Galahad?” 

“Thirty, max,” Eggsy guessed. 

“Twenty-five,” Roxy said, preferring to hedge her bets. 

“I’m older than Agent Whiskey,” Ginger said dryly, “by nearly nine years.” 

“Shove _off_ , that’s not true.” Eggsy was incredulous, even as Roxy blinked and said, “No way.” 

“Get going, Agents.” Ginger sounded amused. 

They approached in a sprint. Eggsy was first in through the gate, twisting to cap the guard lounging in the shade just behind, then aiming up. The guard in the watchpost jerked back, falling out of sight. Roxy went down on a knee, taking aim with her carbine, even as Eggsy opened an umbrella in front of her, absorbing fire. Man on the roof of the theatre. Man behind a tree. Two behind a snack stand. They advanced as Roxy twisted on her heel, taking out a guard emerging from the watchtower. Shells tinkled on the dirt by her shoes as the rifle kicked her shoulder. They breathed in cordite and fireworks. 

Guards unboxed a turret close to the front of a ‘candy shop’. “Eggsy!” Roxy warned, just as the minigun began its rotation. The rounds shattered against the umbrella, which began to fragment, Eggsy shifting back a step, grimacing. The roar that the turret made was immense, drowning out everything else, even as Roxy shifted the box launcher on her shoulder and fired around the umbrella. The single-use rocket sent bodies and superheated fragments scattering, even as Eggsy discarded the umbrella and drew his pistols. 

From the theatre, there was a sudden raucous piano playing. A signal from Elton John? Roxy ducked behind the candy shop, reloading her carbine. Eggsy fired, catching someone coming out of the diner, and ducked into the theatre. Roxy looked around, and found an access ladder behind the candy shop. She climbed. 

There was a sentry seat close to the neon sign. On her belly, Roxy took aim. The posse of guards approaching the theatre fell back as the one at point staggered and fell, his head a ruin. Elevated position, enclosed compound. She got one in a leg, and then in the shoulder as he tried to crawl behind cover. The last ducked behind what looked like a hairdressing salon just as a goddamned _robot_ emerged, dressed like some shop person out of stock photo 90s purgatory.

The day was getting increasingly wild. 

Roxy took a running leap off the roof as the robot aimed a shoulder launcher at her position. The explosion slapped her against the wall of the next ‘shop, leaving her briefly stunned in the dirt. “Lancelot! At your six!” Ginger said sharply.

Her brain snapped instinctively to attention before Ginger’s parade-ground bark. Roxy scrambled to her feet even as the robot started to load another rocket into the launcher. Roxy went back on a knee, bracing, aiming. A bullet caught the missile before it was fed into the launcher, and robot and launcher both went out in a ball of fire.

“Jee-zus!” Eggsy yelped over comms. “What as that? Everything all right out there?” 

“Fine,” Roxy grit out. She darted around the remains of the candy shop, grabbing the ladder and hauling it over to the next intact building, scaling it. Once on the roof, she was just in time to see two mechanical dogs, mastiff-sized, burst out of the dinner, great paws digging troughs into the dirt.

What. 

One darted into the theatre. The second started to do a patrol circuit, snuffling at bodies. Roxy considered her options. Pistols. No grenades. Poison heels. Hmm. 

“The heat sig in the diner is starting to move underground,” Ginger warned. “Poppy probably has an exit strategy.” 

There was a loud crash from within the theatre. After a moment, of all things, a man in some sort of garish… giant bird suit… came out, Eggsy hidden behind him. Roxy blinked. “Eggsy. Are you. Hiding behind Elton John.”

“I’ve got a reason for this,” Eggsy hissed, then paused. “Please don’t ever tell Harry.” 

The dog in the courtyard glanced up, growling, padding closer, but instead of pouncing on Elton, it shifted back, tilting its head, as though confused by Elton’s presence. Roxy didn’t wait for Eggsy’s strategy, shimmying down a pipe and darting for the diner on silent feet. “Hey!” she heard Eggsy yell behind her. “I’m here. Here, boy!” 

In her haste, Poppy hadn’t bothered to hide the entrance to her getaway tunnel: it was under the juke box. Roxy slipped down into the dimly lit corridor, just in time to see Poppy dart around a corner. Poppy fired as Roxy peeked out around it—she was in a room shaped like a subway station, with a little bullet of a train. Roxy ducked away, then swung back out. Two shots to centre mass. Poppy dropped. 

She smiled, blood bubbling up through her mouth, as Roxy drew close. For some reason, Poppy was dressed like a diner waitress, her uniform spotting red. “Veni, vidi, vici,” she whispered, as Roxy knelt beside her, and Roxy understood, in a way. Poppy had conquered cartels, destroyed triads, forced mafias under heel, and in the end, there had been nothing left to do but find new lands to conquer. 

Back up at the compound, Eggsy had somehow managed to bash in the head of the mechanical dog. “All done?” he asked her, as Roxy approached. 

“All done.” 

Beside Eggsy, Elton sagged with relief. “Oh, thank God. I’ve had such an awful time. It’s really very good of you young people to come and get me.” 

Roxy glanced at Eggsy. Then Eggsy grinned. “Don’t mention it, sir. Um. I was wondering, me mum’s a huge fan. Could you sign something for me? Make it out to ‘Michelle’?”

“Me too, please,” Ginger said earnestly, “I _love_ his music.” 

“Ooh. So you really are as old as you say you are,” Eggsy said, pausing in the middle of patting himself down for pen and paper. 

“Shut up.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> American Genocide in Cambodia: https://www.jacobinmag.com/2015/04/khmer-rouge-cambodian-genocide-united-states/  
> Cambodia’s War Debt: http://www.smh.com.au/world/fury-in-cambodia-as-us-asks-to-be-paid-back-hundreds-of-millions-in-war-debts-20170311-guvxyp.html  
> Land Mines in Cambodia: Warning: Graphic imagery: http://www.aljazeera.com/indepth/inpictures/2017/08/beating-odds-clearing-landmines-cambodia-170830073311964.html  
> Cambodia and illegal logging: http://www.channelnewsasia.com/news/asiapacific/illegal-logging-still-threatens-cambodia-s-forests-despite-ban-s-7910618
> 
> Yes Halle Berry is 51. Holy shit. Only a little younger than Mark and 6 yrs younger than Colin. I will die happy if I look that good in 10 yrs, let alone at her age.   
> \--  
> Click on to the last chapter!


	10. Chapter 10

Harry

Given the circumstances, Harry wasn’t entirely surprised to wake up in Kentucky. Ginger checked his eyes, then took his pulse. “What’s your name?” she asked.

“Harry,” Harry said, frowning at her. He was in a sterile room, hooked up to a drip and a machine. 

“Who’s the current President of the United States?”

Harry grimaced. “Good Lord, what have you people done?” 

“I’d accept that for an answer,” Ginger said, grinning. She nodded at the opaque glass, and after a moment, Eggsy and Roxy burst into the room, trailed by Merlin. Ginger exchanged a quiet word with Merlin as Eggsy and Roxy sat by the bed, and Ginger let herself out. 

“Welcome back sir,” Roxy said, smiling. 

“So you lost a lot of blood,” Merlin said, picking up the medical chart. “Agent Whiskey made a shot from the top floor of the antidote facility that shattered Hesketh’s arm, after which he decided to leave you to your own devices until he’d secured the base.”

Merlin sounded faintly disapproving. Harry asked, “Where’s J—Agent Whiskey now?” 

“Said you know where to find him.” Eggsy said, unable to hide his open curiosity. 

New York, then. Harry smiled, because a gentleman’s armour against hurt was an outward show of pleasantries. “How have you been, Eggsy?” 

Roxy narrowed her eyes slightly—smart girl, good instincts—but Eggsy beamed. “Oh man. I’m going to have to try not to word-vomit but for starters, I kinda have your code name right now, I think maybe we got to sort that out, I was also living in your house, but I didn’t mean to, it just became a thing, I’m really sorry about your butterfly collection and Mister Pickles and all that…” Eggsy took in a deep breath. “Also, I’m dating Princess Tilde of Sweden, though um, I think you knew that already, and I really messed up my first dinner with her folks but we’re going to try for a second, and, my mum and sis are doing fine.” 

“You failed at word-vomit,” Roxy told him, and Eggsy blushed. 

“Sorting out the code name can wait until I’m fully cleared for the field,” Harry said. It was hard not to feel gratified at Eggsy’s breathless and obvious hero-worship, but it was a warmth that wasn’t touched with regret. “You ‘messed up’ the first dinner? How did that happen? We certainly had an etiquette session.” 

“The rockets happened,” Eggsy said, with a wry smile, “and uh, before that, something else too.” He looked away for a moment, then Harry stiffened as Eggsy climbed on the bed, hugging him tightly. “Damn. I’m real glad you’re alive. Been waiting to say that to your face.” 

Harry gently patted Eggsy’s back. “I’m glad you’re all well. How did Cambodia go?”

“Poppy’s dead and we saved Sir Elton John,” Roxy said promptly, as Eggsy sat back down. “He’s invited all of us to his next concert in London.”

“That should be rather pleasant,” Harry said, and they talked about little things until Merlin decided it was time for Harry to rest, and shooed the younger agents out of the room. 

“He made the right choice,” Harry said, before Merlin could start.

“Well, you shouldn’a been there in the first place,” Merlin shot back, his accent thickening. “Christ. I thought you were gonnae bleed out under my watch for a second time.” 

“Oh, we’ve had far more close shaves than that, old friend.”

“Don’t you ‘old friend’ me.” Merlin grumbled something under his breath. “And don’t try to escape from Medical before you’re deemed fit. You’re nearly sixty. Haring after younger omegas should be so thirty years ago, eh?” 

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Harry told him firmly, and out of respect for Merlin and their friendship, waited a week before escaping from Medical. Roxy and Eggsy had already flown back to London anyway. 

He had the rare pleasure of seeing Jack visibly surprised when Jack answered the door of his brownstone, though recovery was quick. “You’re in serious trouble,” Jack said, letting Harry in and closing the door behind them. “Sit down somewhere, you’re pale as death.” 

“Thanks for the save on the mountain,” Harry said, limping over to the couch and settling in gratefully. 

Jack’s glance was unreadable. He looked over at the kitchen instead. “Drink?” 

“Please.” 

“Think you’re the sort who likes fancy wines.” Jack rummaged in the cabinet for glasses. It was late in the evening, past dinner, but Harry hadn’t been sure whether Jack would be home. “You’ve eaten?” 

“Yes.” Again that strange look. “Am I intruding?” Harry asked, because gentlemen didn’t presume, and perhaps he should’ve asked this earlier. 

A laugh left Jack in a sharp sound, as though it’d been startled out of him. “No.” Jack opened a bottle from his wine cooler whose label Harry could not see, and poured them a glass each. He handed one to Harry and settled down beside him on the couch, within reach but not too close. It was an elegant red, full-bodied and silky, with a scent like currant and tobacco.

“Château Lafite?” Harry guessed. 

“You’re good. Bought some when the price crashed. Guess the year.”

“I’m not that good. It just happened to be necessary for a mission once.” Harry wasn’t technically this affluent, either. He was comfortable, but not comfortable enough that he could afford cases of wines on a whim that could escalate upwards of five and a half thousand pounds. Or own his own private jet. It was a conscious reminder that the life Harry had led and Jack’s life were only nominally similar. 

“Necessary?” Jack chuckled. “Should tell me that story sometime.” He was relaxing, at least, as he sipped the wine. “I knew you weren’t going to bleed out,” Jack said abruptly, though he didn’t look at Harry. “Ginger was monitoring you.” 

“Even if I was, the mission should’ve been the priority.” 

Jack frowned at the wine. “I know that. Still made me feel sick.” He finally glanced up at Harry, narrow-eyed. “This is why I don’t like getting attached to people.” 

“I’m alive.” 

“With a permanent limp.” 

“Without you I would’ve died.” Harry set his wine glass carefully on the coffee table, then Jack’s. Jack growled, straddling Harry, carefully keeping his weight off Harry’s injured thigh. He undid Harry’s tie, then unbuttoned his shirt, grimacing as he looked at the rib splints, the clavicle brace. 

“Shit,” Jack said, “what a mess.” He looked angry, for a moment, then folded that away with visible effort. 

“Wasn’t as bad as the last time.” Harry set his hands lightly over Jack’s hips. If all he had left to lure and keep Jack for himself was honesty then honesty he would use. “I missed you in Kentucky.”

“Had work to do here.” Jack tilted his head. “Besides, I thought you had things to talk to your friends about.” 

“I did, exhaustively.” Being a rather solitary person by habit, Harry had found everyone’s near-constant presence rather tiring by the third day. “They’ve been sent back to London. Preparing to set up the agency all over again.”

“So I’ve heard. I’ve also heard that you’re supposed to be the new Arthur.” 

“I haven’t yet decided.” 

“Why not? That’d make you the boss. Or a branch chief, if you guys go ahead and agree to a merger.” 

“I don’t want the rest of my life to be more of the same.” Admitting that also ached, but it was a hollowing-out ache, a necessary spasm of truth. Jack blinked, then set his hands carefully on Harry’s arms and bowed his head, exhaling. He’d been dressed for home, graceful even in a loose shirt and soft trousers, the hated hat nowhere to be seen. 

“This is going to be really fucked up,” Jack predicted. “We already argue a lot. Step on each other’s toes. We’re both used to having our own way and don’t like to be told different. Hell, we don’t even live on the same continents.” 

“The last is just a matter of logistics. As to the rest, I’d like to try.” 

Jack pressed his mouth to Harry’s neck, scenting him, fingers curling lightly into his hair. It wasn’t really an answer, but Harry forced himself to wait, to kiss the slope of Jack’s shoulders, running his palms lightly over powerful thighs. Then Jack exhaled. “It’ll be a disaster, you know that.” 

Harry tried to swallow his disappointment, but an attempt at a smile wavered badly and faded. “I don’t believe so.” 

“I think we should do a trial period,” Jack said then, making Harry blink. “We’ll give this a month. If anything, somebody has to keep an eye on you until you stop spacing out.” Jack sounded defensive, as though he was reasoning things out for himself, and now Harry finally understood Jack’s strange temper. Losing Sofia must have made Jack afraid of losing people. The wound might have scarred over, but some parts were still a little raw.

Harry tipped Jack’s chin over, to meet his eyes. “And I think I’ve proven by now that I’m awfully hard to kill. You made the right decision on the mountain.”

“Would you have made the same decision?” Jack countered.

“Of course.” That was a lie. Harry tried to imagine himself watching Jack getting beaten to death and had to take in a slow breath, stifling bile. Jack stared at him, sober. 

“No, I don’t think you would’ve.” 

“I’ve told you before, you’re a better agent than I am.”

“Not a better mate though, hm?” 

Harry tensed, then regretted that, when Jack straightened up. “I didn’t say that. Nor was I asking that of you.” 

“Why not?” Jack smiled, but his tone was sharp.

“Let’s see if we can go through this trial period without being tempted to kill each other,” Harry said, and facetiousness finally worked where flattery and honesty hadn’t—Jack laughed, and relaxed, and kissed Harry on the forehead. 

“Fine. A month. And the hat is non-negotiable.”

Roxy

Emma was bubbling with excitement at the park, Diana at her heels. They waited until Diana stopped bounding around the both of them with delirious joy before taking a walk under the trees. “So I had a little encounter with your spy stuff a few days ago.”

“Really?” Roxy had been en route back from Kentucky but as far as she was aware, nothing was on fire, the antidote was being distributed, and apparently even Kingsman would be up and running again soon. 

“Ooh yes. Some guy tailed me from the precinct. Didn’t quit, too. Eventually I cornered him a few blocks away from home and pulled my service piece on him. Just to scare him off, y’know.” 

Roxy tensed. “Some guy?” 

“It was that rich guy you asked me to look up. Y’know, the guy who now calls himself Jack Daniels? The ex-DEA agent?”

“Jack was in London?” Roxy hadn’t heard that.

“Yeah. He wanted to know why I pulled his file. Also, he was seriously bitchy about having my gun in his face, until I showed him my badge and explained that I couldn’t be sure what he was, he could be a wannabe rapist or flasher or perv.” 

Roxy hid a grin. “He must’ve liked that.”

“He started laughing, actually. Then I don’t know how he guessed, but he guessed I was your friend? I didn’t say nothing. Then he tells me to tell you to sponsor me for the trials, whatever that is, and fucks off.” Emma stared at Roxy. “What trials? We en’t talking Hunger Games here or something, yeah?”

“Not particularly,” Roxy said. She’d been considering it, actually. “How would you like to work for MI6, but with more money?” 

Emma laughed. “Very funny.” She paused. “You’re not joking. I didn’t get a fancy A’levels score or nothing. Didn’t go to Oxbridge.”

“None of that matters anymore.” Or so she hoped. “It’d be tough. But I believe you can do it. And if you qualify, it’s the best life there is.”

“I’ll think about it,” Emma said, though Roxy could see that she was tempted. They talked shop for a while. The Yard was still in chaos from the consequences from Poppy’s gambit: the morgues were full. Bodies were still being found everyday, particularly of the homeless, or people who lived alone, more. The missile investigation had died down for now. “Though I appreciate the tip about the Norwegian island.” 

“Not a problem.” 

Emma turned. “You sure you’re doing all right?” she asked. “I can’t ever tell with you. Especially nowadays.”

Roxy looked out over the park. Compartmentalising. She knew she’d have to be careful. There could be a balance between Eggsy’s struggles and falling into habit, ending up like Harry had been, living an impersonal life, beholden to no one. Roxy would have to be careful. But she had a pretty good advantage thanks to the people she knew, and the people she would come to know. She smiled. “I’m going to be all right.”

Jack

“So you’re telling me,” Eggsy said slowly, “what happened is, Chile missed out on the World Cup ‘cos they got more points earlier than they should?”

“Bolivia used an ineligible player and Chile appealed so they got three points instead of one, but Peru, which also played Bolivia, got three points instead of zero,” Roxy said promptly, clearly the teacher’s pet in all scenarios, “and given how all the other games played out and Peru’s indirect free kick goal, Chile ended up at sixth place on a goal differential.” 

“I didn’t know you watched football,” Eggsy told her, while Jack grumbled under his breath and nursed a glass of scotch, tucked against Harry. 

“Not really,” Roxy admitted. “But I like looking things up.” 

“S’pose that’s what happens when you’re a snitch,” Eggsy said, grinning cheekily at Jack, though he was careful to keep Roxy between them. 

“Maybe all of you should watch the NBA instead,” Ginger suggested. She had spent the whole match with a bemused expression, clearly bored but not wanting to be rude. “Did Scotland get in?”

“No,” Merlin said gloomily, from the armchair to Harry’s right. “Drew with Slovenia.” 

“Sweden did pretty well, I think.” Eggsy was checking his phone. “Tilde’s going to be attending their next match, she asked me to come with.”

Jack glanced up at Harry, but Harry didn’t even blink. “They’ll have a bit of a fight on their hands against the Italians, but I’m sure it’d be an exciting game,” Harry said, even though Jack knew for certain that Harry had zero interest in football and had probably just done some ‘light reading’ the day before to ‘catch up on the key issues’. Harry was what teachers’ pets like Roxy eventually became.

Harry sighed when Jack told him this afterwards, as they were clearing up the post-guest debris from the living room. “Roxy is a very bright young agent.”

“Didn’t say she wasn’t. She’s Ginger’s favourite.” 

“Arthur isn’t meant to play favourites,” Harry said, in a snippy way that indicated Harry had most certainly been The Favourite at some point in time, possibly his entire life, and had simply taken it for granted. “How’s your family taking the results?”

Jack nodded over at his phone, which had buzzed so much from the torrent of furious messages that it had vibrated off the table and was now facedown on the carpet. “I’ll answer in the morning.” He kissed Harry next to the sink, and felt Harry purr and lean into him. 

Harry’s new townhouse was an elegant purchase in yet another quiet residential street, seldom used, despite Harry’s patient and doomed campaign over the last year to get Jack to move to London. Having to stumble up the narrow stairs to get to the bedroom after a bottle of wine and a couple of glasses of scotch meant a few minor mishaps, and Jack was yawning when Harry finally got them to bed.

“You’re soused,” Harry said, amused, nuzzling his throat. 

“Mmhmm, says you.” Jack snuggled against the sheets. Eventually, Harry gave up trying to nudge him towards the bathroom and wandered off to clean up and change. Jack was dozing off when Harry returned, settling against Jack, kissing his shoulders, eventually nudging up to the unmarked bonding spot. 

Jack reached back, fingers skating over Harry’s cheek. “Could do that during my next heat.” 

He’d spoken casually, but Harry tensed anyway. Then he chuckled, low and wry. “You’re soused.” When Jack smirked, Harry added, “And your mother doesn’t like me.”

“She did, up until you failed the question about grandkids.”

Harry actually shifted up on an elbow to look at him. “You told me you weren’t interested in having children at your age.” 

“Yeah, but she didn’t need to know that.” At least Jack’s aunts were still divided on the matter of Harry, which meant that his mother might eventually come around. Harry started to frown, but relaxed when pulled down for a kiss.

“So you wanted me to lie to your mother,” Harry told him, when Jack resettled against him, mouth pressed against Harry’s throat. 

“Don’t act like that’s a goddamned scandal. You were doing a fine job talking up your work as a ‘tailor’.” 

“I _am_ trained as a tailor. Part of the previous Arthur’s obsession with authenticity and tradition. Granted, he was rather eccentric.”

“And how are you finding the new Arthur?”

“Better Ginger than me,” Harry said firmly. Harry had handed off the reins with undisguised relief after a few months and had moved back to New York, despite Champ’s disapproval and Tequila’s amusement. Harry hadn’t technically retired, and Eggsy had promptly changed his code name from Galahad to Gawain, but Ginger had yet to send Harry on any new missions. “I hadn’t the slightest idea how to run a business. Or an agency.”

“You could’ve gotten used to it,” Jack said, who hadn’t been surprised in the least about the development. “If you still want to work, I’ll talk to her.” 

“That’s quite all right. I’ll speak to her myself if I start to go stir crazy.” 

“Aren’t you?” 

Harry looked at him, sober, for a moment, then glanced out of the window. “Strangely, no. I’ve spent so long bracketing the quiet hours of my life with violence that I thought I’d miss it. But I don’t. Winding down has been surprisingly pleasant. Having the time to read again, go to the theatre, to museums—”

“And chase butterflies?”

“At some point, perhaps.” 

“Tomorrow? Guess I could try and see why you think shit like that is fun.” It was a quiet part of the year for the business anyway. 

“I thought you don’t like bugs,” Harry said, blinking. 

“I thought _you_ said you don’t run after them with nets anymore. _Looking_ at bugs I can do. As long as nothing crawls on me I’ll be fine.” 

Harry started to laugh. “Again you surprise me.”

“Get used to it,” Jack told him, smirking as Harry brushed a kiss against his mouth, then his throat, then the back of his neck, against the proper spot. 

“Your next heat,” Harry said softly, hushed with promise, “if you’d have me,” and breathed in, as Jack curled fingers into his hair, holding him in place.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know the President gets impeached at the end of K:GC, but if you think he’s getting impeached while Republicans hold House and Senate, heh. He could probably be filmed drop kicking a baby and his base would believe it’s fake news. By Cthulu please not another 4 years of this. I swear I’ve aged 10 years since last November.
> 
> Football lol https://www.cbssports.com/soccer/news/south-american-champs-chile-missed-out-on-the-world-cup-for-unbelievable-reasons/

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading!  
> \--  
> twitter: manic_intent  
> tumblr: manic-intent.tumblr.com


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